Lost and Found
by Bex the Mongoose
Summary: The critics say: It's brilliant. Twisted. Wrong. Hilarious. When Victoria is rescued from Gotham by Crane and his twin Rippner, she loses everything. But she finds the older brother she never wanted and the love of her life...and she'll fight to keep them
1. Lost

Hello there, and welcome to the show! Bex the Mongoose speaking. I know this first chapter is very short, but I had originally intended this to be a one-shot in three chapters, not the enormous story it has (eek!) become. So hang in there through the first few chapters – I promise the rest are lovely and long.

Hope you like!

* * *

"This way, now. We are now approaching the dining room - "

"Oh, joy," muttered Tory under her breath, but she nevertheless diligently followed her classmates down the bare concrete hallway. On either side were doors to private cells. Each door had a tiny window on the front. So far, the class hadn't really seen that many inmates – just a few in the lounge and a couple walking the halls. They'd been quiet and slow, rarely glancing up from the floor. Not at all what she'd expected.

Tory's footsteps slowed, then stopped. Her class had rounded a corner up ahead, but she could catch up in a minute. Slowly, as if stalking a wild animal, she approached the door to her right. Standing up on tiptoe, she peeked in the window.

Then screamed as a man's face flattened itself against the glass.

He older, a bit pudgy, with short-cut gray hair. He should have been bouncing grandchildren on his knee or sneaking out of work for a game of golf. Not clawing at the door like he could tear it down. Or staring at nothing with such wide, terrified eyes.

She flung herself back a few feet, her breath short with shock. He was mouthing something, his face contorted in fear. She couldn't tell what he was trying to say. Then suddenly, very faintly, she could hear him through the heavy door.

"Scarecrow. Scarecrow."

Tory bit her lip and blinked back tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered to no one in particular, and walked away, her shoulders hunched and her arms wrapped around her ribs. She'd been here all of fifteen minutes and she thought her heart was going to break. Thankfully, she wasn't planning on working in an asylum.

She was a transfer student. She hadn't been in Gotham when all of – that - had happened. But she'd heard a lot about it now that she was here. And what she'd heard had mainly centered around the former director of this very asylum. Dr. Crane, aka Scarecrow. They said that he was incarcerated here now. Tory earnestly hoped that she wasn't going to see him on this little field trip.

Field trip. Shit. Where was her class? Tory's steps quickened. She was pretty darn sure they'd turned left.

* * *

Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. I do not own Batman Begins. I do not own Dr. Jonathan Crane. And I would say something cute about that, like how if I DID own Jon I could keep him in my closet, but it's late and I can't really think of anything. Sorry. 


	2. Found

Or maybe she was wrong.

In fact, she was pretty certain she was wrong. Because she was completely effing lost. In Arkham Asylum, of all places! Was there a _worse _place to get lost? Well, okay, the Narrows. That would be worse. But not by much.

"Okay," Tory muttered to herself, "just take a deep breath." She was facing yet another blasted crossroads. "I do believe that this time, just for variety, I will turn right." Which she did.

"Whoops, wrong way." Because this corridor was very short, and ended at an expanse of glass looking into a single room. Probably some sort of lounge for the doctors.

On the other hand, maybe she could find some nice doc to tell her how to get out of this hell-hole. Tory walked briskly forward, trying to project confidence instead of stupidity.

Wrong again. Because as soon as Tory was a few feet away, she knew she was not looking at a lounge. Far from it.

It was another cell – but not a cell like Tory had ever seen. The glass practically covered the entire wall, giving any casual observer a complete view of the tiny room. Which wasn't much – just a bed in a corner and a small screen around what she guessed was probably the toilet.

At first glance, Tory thought that that was all there was to see. Second glance proved her wrong, yet again, as a flurry of movement caught her eye. She turned her head sharply and realized that there was a man on the bed, apparently asleep, yet tossing and turning. The movement she'd glimpsed had probably been him kicking off the blankets.

He was dressed in orange like all the other prisoners/patients, but he looked a good bit younger than most of them. Almost insanely young, in fact – no pun intended. Surely he couldn't be much older than herself. Apparently he was having a nightmare. As Tory watched, he buried his face in his thin pillow and clenched his fists, then shuddered and curled up into the fetal position. His eyes were shut tight, and Tory could see sweat beading on his brow.

Tory raised her hand, then hesitated. But as the young man writhed once more her resolution hardened and she rapped firmly against the glass, a bit more loudly than she'd intended.

He was awake and sitting up in a flash, startlingly light blue eyes wide open and disturbingly focused upon her. There was something oddly still in the way he sat there, and something oddly cold in the way he calmly perused her.

"Sorry," said Tory, flushed. The man cocked his head, indicating that he couldn't hear her. "Um, you were having a nightmare," she said loudly, laying her head on her hands to try and indicate sleep. "Sorry I woke you... "

He got off the bed and moved the few feet to the glass, pressing on something out of Tory's range of vision.

"Hello," he told her. His voice was curiously smooth and soft, pleasantly deep without being grating, and seemingly coming from underneath her hand. Tory looked down and realized that there was an intercom built into the window's small sill. It had a lot of buttons.

"Press the big red one."

Ah-hah. Tory pressed the big red one and a green light flashed. Oh, goody.

"I think that's the first thing that's gone right today," she half-laughed out of sheer exasperation, then abruptly remembered who she was talking to. She quickly looked back up into those strange eyes.

My goodness, Tory thought. He's cute. Who'd have thought? She admired his sculpted cheekbones and full lips even as she spoke.

"I'm sorry to wake you. You looked like you were having a pretty bad nightmare."

"So I was, Miss..." he paused.

Tory wasn't sure if she should give her name to someone who was criminally insane, but she responded after only a second's hesitation. "Tory. Well, Victoria, really. But everyone calls me Tory."

There was a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips. "Well, Miss Victoria, thank you very much. Believe me, I," he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, " very much appreciate it." There was a flash of something in his eyes, a glimpse of old, well-worn terror. But it was gone before Tory could really register it.

"No problem. But please, really, it's Tory. Nobody calls me Victoria but my grandfather," she added with a slight roll of her eyes.

Again, that faint smile. "Very well, Tory." He studied her again, taking in her jeans, bright top, cropped jeans jacket, and the notebook tucked under her arm. "You're a student at Gotham High, I take it?"

Tory knew it was a really bad idea to give personal information to crazy people. But there seemed no polite way to avoid the question, and besides, he seemed okay. Of course, with her character-judgment skills, that probably meant he was a serial killer or something. "Nope, sorry. I'm a sophomore at Gotham University."

He raised an eyebrow, looking surprised. "A sophomore? At the University? You look a little young for that."

"I skipped a grade."

"I see."

"Plus I earned some college credit in high school. Actually, I'd be a junior right now if all my credits had transferred."

"Oh, you transferred?" His tone was light and curious, as if for all the world they were having this conversation at a coffee shop, instead of in an asylum.

"From Wyoming. I wanted to live in a big city."

"And how is the big city to your taste?"

Tory shrugged. "Well, I mean, the crime rate is pretty bad here. Although that Batman seems to be mopping up the streets." She was glancing absently away and didn't notice the man's body stiffen at the sound of the hero's name. "But I do like it. There's so much to do here! The opera and the shows and the art galleries and the clubs - after the town I came from, it's like heaven!"

The man nodded. "Yes, Gotham does have a good night life, at least. So, you're here for what class?"

"Human Development. The class in which we cover all of human life, from womb to death." Tory laughed. "It always seemed a bit broad to me for a single class. Shouldn't that be a four-year degree or something? At least?" Tory knew she was talking way, way too much. But this man was an incredibly good conversationalist. Whenever Tory thought an awkward silence would develop, he stepped in with another question. Plus, it was obvious that he was listening – really listening.

This guy missed his calling, thought Tory. He should have been a therapist.

"I remember that class."

"Oh? Did you go to Gotham, too?"

"Oh, yes. A while ago."

She gave him a skeptical glance. "Surely not that long ago. You're…what? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?"

"Try thirty," he said, amusement flavoring his pleasant voice. "And, correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't remember the Human Development tour extending to Maximum Security."

"I'm in Maximum Security?" Tory gasped, eyes wide. Shit! And that meant that he was -

He must have seen the look on her face. "Don't worry, Miss Tory. I don't bite." His voice was very gentle. "But you probably should get out of here."

"Um, yeah," Tory agreed emphatically. "Can you give me directions?"

He did, slowly and clearly, and he had Tory repeat back everything he said.

"Thanks so much," she gushed, when they'd finished that. "I thought I was going to be lost here forever!"

"A smart girl like you? I doubt it."

"I'm smart at books, Mister... " at that point Tory realized she didn't know his name.

"Jon."

"Right. I'm smart at books, Jon – my common sense score is approximately, oh, zero."

"That's all right. You'll gain common sense as you get older."

"Wanna bet?" asked Tory ruefully, readjusting her notebook under her arm.

"Well, thanks very much, Jon. It's been nice talking with you."

"Likewise, Tory." There was real warmth in his voice. "Don't get lost."

"I'll do my best," she said with a laugh. "Sweet dreams!"

"I'm afraid that's unlikely," he said in a low voice, just as she was taking a few steps away. She came back.

"Hey, cheer up. This can't last forever."

He'd been looking down, but after she said that he looked back up. His eyes held that same haunted feeling she'd glimpsed earlier, tempered with what looked like grief. Tory felt her heart ache and unconsciously touched the glass with her fingertips, as if to comfort him.

He smiled at the gesture, his first full smile, and Tory was once again keenly aware of how gorgeous he was. He didn't answer, merely motioned with his head towards the corridor. It was time for her to go.

Bye, she mouthed.

Bye, he mouthed back.


	3. And Lost Again

He watched her retreat down the hallway, her chin-length, spiky hair gleaming under the bright lights and her slender hips swaying in a thoroughly mesmerizing fashion. She turned the corner, and Jonathan Crane gently placed the soft pad connecting his thumb to his hand between his teeth.

He'd lied about one thing. He did bite.

Slowly, inexorably, his teeth crushed down. A faster bite would have been just as effective, but less painful. He wanted pain – needed pain. Anything to distract him. Anything to clear away the hallucinations that haunted him from day to day, making his days a terror and his nights a living hell. Even now, at the edge of his vision, he caught glimpses of nameless horrors. But the pain was helping, and they slowly receded.

Blood flowed between his teeth and down his throat and he released his hand immediately, cupping the other hand underneath to catch any spare drops of the precious liquid. It was a risk, doing this – if they caught him self-mutilating again they'd put him in the straightjacket, and Crane hated the straightjacket above all else. The last time they'd put him in one, he'd tried to bash his brains out against the walls. Which, of course, had only earned him a longer sentence in the thing. Now he'd gone almost a week without restraints of any kind, and he would hate to give it up. But this needed to be done.

Lying prone on the cold floor, he pulled himself with one hand underneath his bed. It was dark there, but he could make out faint scrawlings on the underside. Dr. Crane was here. Scarecrow. Batman. I'm crazy. I want to die.

All written in his own blood, the only ink left to him. His diary.

Reaching up one hand underneath the mattress, he pulled out a single straw that had fallen off one of his doctor's boots some months ago. Dipping the straw in his blood, he slowly inked the letters onto the metal underside of his bed.

V. I. C. T. O. R. I. A.

He paused as he finished the A, then carefully added a star on one side and a heart on the other. There. He pulled himself out from under the bed, replaced the straw in its hiding place, and slipped behind the screen to his sink, where he carefully washed his hand. Hopefully the nurses wouldn't notice.

As he crawled back into bed his thoughts dwelled warmly on the girl. She was the first person he'd talked to in over a year who hadn't said things like, "And how does that make you feel?" while staring at him with mingled disgust and fear. He hated therapy. He was a psychiatrist, for God's sake. He knew what they were going to say before they said it. Talking with Victoria had been like, as cliché as it sounded, a breath of fresh air. She was nice. And pretty. Very pretty. And she'd liked him, too. He'd caught the hints of desire in her eyes, the pretty blushes and the swift, playful glances. How long had it been since he'd flirted, just flirted? He didn't want to think about it.

It was utterly useless, of course. Even now she would be talking with her friends, telling them all about the nice prisoner she'd met. Inevitably someone would say, "Tory! That was Dr. Crane! The sick freak who tried to destroy Gotham!" And that would be the end of it. Or even if it wasn't, he would never see her again. Never, never, never.

But he'd written her down anyway. And he would remember her. They'd taken away his work, his life, his sanity. But he'd be damned if they'd take away this harmless little coed fantasy.

With that he drifted back into an uneasy sleep, dreaming alternatively of monsters and a pretty student with a kind smile.


	4. Who is Victoria?

Just to clarify - I know that an antidote was invented for the hallucinogen. However, I had the idea that the longer the stretch between the administration of the gas and the injection of the antidote, the more permanent effects the gas might have on the brain. It took them a while to hunt down Crane and put him in the asylum, so that is why he is still suffering ill effects, and Dawes was cured right away. Also, the symptoms eventually begin to fade, so Crane is slowly recovering, which is why he's semi-rational in the story.

* * *

"Who is Victoria?"

Dr. Jonathan Crane, former director of Arkham Asylum and current patient of the same institution, woke up with a start. He really had tried to stay awake. Honestly he had. But when Dr. Warner had started in on the Oedipus Complex again he couldn't help but drift off. He'd heard that crackpot theory about seven sessions in a row now, and it had started to put him to sleep since the third time.

All too late he realized his mistake. It was a clever trick and as old as the books – relax the patient with routine, and then snap a new question at them. Startle them into telling you the truth. It worked 99 of the time.

Well, Warner was just going to have to deal with the fact that Jonathan was that little ol' 1.

"Sorry?" Jonathan murmured, his heavy-lidded eyes still half-closed. "I'm sorry, was I asleep?" He wearily rubbed his eyes. "I've been sleeping really badly…"

"Who is Victoria?" Warner's tone said that he wasn't fooled by Jonathan's little show. It also said that he was getting ready to play hard-ball. Despite himself, Jonathan's stomach tightened a little in apprehension. Once upon a time, he'd been on the other side of the table, bullying some reluctant patient into revealing their innermost secrets. Now he was the one getting bullied, and he didn't like it. Not one bit.

Of course, he'd gotten his fair share of bullying in his earlier years, and he'd learned a lot from those days. Don't fight back. Don't say more than you have to. Don't lie or beg or scream or plead. Just lie down and take it, and when they get bored they'll wander off.

Time to see if that still worked.

"Victoria?" Jonathan asked, giving himself a few more seconds to think. They could have watched the security cameras and seen his encounter with the student, but then they wouldn't be asking him who Victoria was – they'd be asking him what he'd liked in her, if he'd wanted to have sex with her, and other inappropriately personal questions. Therefore, they hadn't reviewed the security tapes. Just because the cameras were running didn't mean that somebody was always watching. As the former director, Jonathan knew that well.

Maybe Victoria had talked. In fact, he was willing to bet a great deal that she had talked to someone about him. But she would have told her friends, not the doctors.

There was only one way they could know about her.

"Yes, Crane. Victoria. Who is she?"

"I see you've found my diary," said Jonathan, very, very softly. A twisted smile hovered on his lips.

That unsettled Warner. Jonathan could tell.

"Yes, we did," said Warner shortly. "And you're lucky that it didn't land you back in the straightjacket." He looked pointedly at Jonathan's bitten hand. Jonathan tensed, his smile vanishing. His agitation was clearly visible to Warner, and Jonathan hated himself for it.

"It's okay, Crane. Just answer a few questions, and I'll make sure that you stay out of that thing."

What did they think he was, stupid? He'd never heard a more transparent threat/bribe in his life.

"Who's Victoria?"

"You know," said Jonathan smoothly, carefully concealing his growing anger, "I wouldn't have to self-mutilate if you'd just give me a pen and a notepad."

"Nice try, Crane. The last time we handed you a pen, you tried to stab yourself in the throat with it."

"It's not my fault, Doctor Warner. There have been numerous studies suggesting the reality of a rapport between twins." Jonathan's face was blank, but his blue eyes were shining. It was his way of joking.

"That's enough. We're not here to talk about Jackson. We're here to talk about Victoria. So tell me," and with that Warner lunged over the table aggressively, "who the _hell_ is this woman whose name you feel obligated to decorate with little hearts and fireworks?"

Stars, you cretin, thought Jonathan, but he wisely kept that to himself. He hadn't moved an inch when Warner had tried to scare him. He just narrowed his clear blue eyes, finally letting Warner see how pissed off he was getting.

"College student," he said flatly.

"Aah." Warner leaned back in his chair with every sign of genial satisfaction. "From when you taught at Gotham, I presume?"

Jonathan shrugged.

"Answer the question, Crane," Warner barked.

"No."

Warner waited for more, but Jonathan wasn't going to give it to him. He was rapidly becoming furious. How _dare _they intrude upon this? Victoria was _his_, goddammit. She was the one bright spot, the one person who had liked him, the single factor in his life that hadn't already been analyzed to death.

"Tell me where you met her, Jonathan."

To hell with lying there and taking it. Jonathan just stared at Warner, watching the doctor become increasingly nervous under the scrutiny of those cold, monstrous eyes.

"Like hell," he said flatly.

Warner almost jumped out of his chair. He stared at Jonathan, jaw dropped, eyes glazed with disbelief.

"Did you just _swear_?"


	5. His name is Crane

FINALLY! The stupid site wouldn't let me update for two whole days. I almost _died. _Okay, I didn't feel it quite that deeply, but it was definitely frustrating.

I have one thing to say. Review. Review. Review. Please! Picture me, on my knees and begging, my remaining scraps of dignity relinquished. Say you love it. Say you hate it. Say your dead cat could write better. I don't care. Just say anything. But above all, let me know if you think I'm making Crane OOC. I'd hate to do that. I mean, why mess withsomething so good?

* * *

_Knock knock_. 

Tory lifted her head from her laptop's keyboard with a jerk. Yawning and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she grimaced at the sight of a solid line of _tttttttttttttttttt_ that decorated her screen. Grabbing the mouse, Tory scrawled up through thirty-six pages of a single letter.

"Ugh." Well, that was the last time she fell asleep at her desk. Yeah, right.

_Knock knock._

"All right, all right! Let's not get violent," Tory shouted irritably, crawling stiffly out of her chair and stretching her aching back. Stumbling over her backpack, two piles of dirty laundry, and the teddy bear that had fallen off her bed, she finally reached the door and yanked it open.

"What in the wor – oh, hi. Um, can I help you?"

The squat, balding man in the suit wiped his forehead. Tory sympathized – it was spring, but they hadn't turned off the heat in the dorms yet. She herself was dressed in her skimpiest tank top and shortest shorts to deal.

"You're Victoria Godwin?" he asked, squinting at her.

"That's me. Did I win the lottery?" asked Victoria hopefully.

He chuckled, sounding a bit like Santa. "No, I'm afraid not, Miss Godwin." He pulled a clipboard out from under his arm. "My name is Dr. Warner, from Arkham Asylum, and I have a few questions for you. May I come in?"

Victoria stepped out of the way and let the doctor get a good look at her room. He blanched slightly.

"The lobby might be better," she suggested tactfully. "I don't think there's anyone there."

"Yes, of course," he said, eyeing the dripping bras that hung from the ceiling.

A few minutes later, they were seated on opposing uncomfortable sofas, Dr. Warner looking thoroughly out of place and Tory feeling a bit exposed. She'd never intended to actually leave her room dressed this scantily, let alone have an interview.

"So…" Tory started as soon as Dr. Warner had pulled out his notebook again. "Is there a problem or something?"

He felt it necessary to open his pen, shift in his seat, clear his throat, and adjust his tie before saying, "Did you recently attend a tour of Arkham Asylum?"

"Yeah," said Tory. "About a week ago." The doctor smiled and opened his mouth, but Tory barreled on nervously. "This is about me getting into Maximum Security, isn't it? I'm sorry, but I really was lost. Honestly. Is Jon in trouble for talking to me? 'Cause he really was a big help, and a perfect gentleman and all that. Or, wait, shouldn't I have woken him up? I knew I shouldn't interfere, but he was so scared…"

Warner finally managed to say, very loudly, "Please, Miss Godwin! I assure you everything will be explained." Tory shut up, uneasily tapping her fingers on her knee.

She really hoped she hadn't gotten Jon in trouble.

"Now, you said you got lost?"

"Yes, sir."

"In Maximum Security?"

"Yeah."

"And you talked to…" Warner almost said something, then seemed to change his mind and carefully said, "a prisoner?"

"Um, yeah. He said his name was Jon."

"Dark brown hair, blue eyes, slim build…"

High cheekbones, full lips, cute smile, added Tory to herself. "Yup, that's him."

To her very great surprise, Warner beamed. "At last. We've led quite a search for you, Victoria!"

To which Tory could only reply, "Huh?"

"A few more questions, Victoria, and then you can go. Now, were you previously acquainted with this man?"

"Nope. Never seen him before in my life."

"You did not recognize him?"

"Uh, no. Should I have?"

He ignored her query, still smiling happily even as he flung question after question at her. "And what exactly did you talk about?"

Here Tory hesitated. She hadn't told anyone about the conversation, because...well, frankly, you didn't get into Maximum Security at Arkham Asylum without having done something pretty terrible. Tory had hemmed and hawed but finally decided not to Google Jon or ask anyone about him, because, to tell the truth, she really didn't want to know what he had done. Maybe it was naïve and foolish, but she preferred to remember him just as Jon, not as the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper or someone who had taken the _Texas Chainsaw Massacre _a bit too seriously.

She was getting the sickening feeling she was about to find out what he'd done, whether she wanted to or not.

"I don't really remember." Warner frowned, and Tory continued on hastily, "I mean, it was a while ago. I guess we talked about Gotham University a little, and then he gave me directions to the entrance."

"How long did the conversation last?"

Tory shrugged uncomfortably. "I dunno. Five minutes?"

That seemed to surprise him. He frowned and squinted again at Tory, as if trying to see into her innermost soul.

"What was his attitude towards Gotham University?"

"I don't know," said Tory shortly. "He'd just said he'd gone there." She was getting more than a little sick of all these questions.

"What about you?"

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"I mean, what was his attitude towards you? Did he seem attracted to you? Did he ask a lot of personal questions? Did he try and exit his cell? Did he…"

"Okay, that's enough," said Tory sharply, standing up and – well, not exactly _towering_, she was a bit short for that, but at least _hovering_ over the doctor menacingly. "What is all this about?"

"Please, Victoria, I will explain…"

"That's Miss Godwin to you," said Tory icily. Warner looked startled and a little apprehensive, and Tory was secretly impressed with herself. She'd never tried to pull off the cold-hearted bitch routine before, and it was working surprisingly well. "You promised to explain quite some time ago, I believe. So no more questions. I want some answers."

"All right, all right," said Warner irritably, tapping his pen against his clipboard. He waited a few seconds – apparently for Tory to sit – but she simply remained where she was. "Very well, the facts of the matter are these. The man you spoke to was Jonathan Crane."

Tory decided to sit. Fast. Before her knees gave out.

"Scarecrow?" she whispered, eyes big.

"Ah, so you _have _heard of him," said Warner in a gratified way.

"Yeah, but…that was _Crane_? The guy who developed that hallucinogen-thingy? Tried to destroy Gotham and all that? Wears a burlap sack on his head? Former director of _your _asylum? _That_ Crane!"

"Yes."

Tory covered her face with her hand. She was right, it had definitely been better not knowing.

"He seemed so nice," she said weakly into her palm. "Bit young for a doctor," she added after a second.

"He skipped four grades in school, I believe, and earned his PhD in only seven years. He's a genius." There was a tinge of sadness to Warner's words, a hint of regret.

"Jeez. And there I was bragging about skipping one."

Warner smiled absent-mindedly. "Yes, he can be a bit…intimidating at times. Particularly when you're his therapist," he said with a sigh.

"You're his therapist?"

"Unfortunately, yes," Warner said with a grimace. "And I may tell you, young woman, that it's no easy task. Frankly, trying to get anywhere with him, particularly as he recovers, has been like pulling teeth."

"It can't be that bad. He talked to me," pointed out Tory. Warner raised his eyebrows a little and focused his gaze on a distant point over her shoulder, apparently deep in thought. "Hey – you said he's recovering?"

"The effects of the hallucinogen upon his brain are slowly diminishing, yes," said Warner dryly, refocusing upon Tory's face.

Tory got the message. Crane recovering was not necessarily Crane becoming a better person.

"So…am I in trouble?" she finally asked, when Warner had been quiet for a few seconds.

"No, no," he said with a chuckle, regaining his former good humor. "No, we merely found his, uh, diary. Your name was in it, but when we asked Crane he refused to say anything about you, other than that you were a student. Became a bit vehement, really," Warner added with a trace of awe. "He actually swore."

"Um, so?" asked Tory, who as a college student was surrounded almost constantly by profanity.

"I've _never _heard Crane swear."

"I see."

Warner leaned back, tapping his pen on his clipboard thoughtfully. He appeared to be studying Tory.

"He talked to you," Warner said quietly.

"Mostly asked me questions, really. About transferring to Gotham U and things like that."

"Still…" Warner let the word hang, once more lost in thought. Just as Tory was about to ask if she could go, he leaned forward abruptly. "Miss Godwin, how would you like to have a unique opportunity?"

Tory raised her eyebrows. "That's what my dad says right before he tells me to go clean up the dog poop in our yard."

To her surprise, Warner laughed – a somewhat creaky, labored laugh that sounded exceedingly unused. "No, no, nothing as disgusting as that. I merely thought that, seeing as Crane has apparently taking a liking to you, you might visit him occasionally. Talk to him. Let him talk to you."

"I see. Unofficial therapy?"

"Something like that."

Tory was quiet for a moment. On the one hand, she'd liked what she'd seen of Jon. He was undoubtedly handsome and very nice – at least to her. But discovering what he'd done disturbed her. Besides, she wasn't sure she was willing to shoulder responsibility for anyone's mental health but her own.

"Let me think about it," she finally said.

"Perfectly reasonable," said Warner amiably, rising from his scratchy seat on the sofa. "If you decide you want to participate, just call Arkham Asylum and ask for me, Dr. Theodore Warner."

"Right, gotcha." They shook hands and Warner started to walk for the elevators.

"Hey, Dr. Warner?" Tory called after him.

"Yes?" he asked, turning around.

"What did he write about me in his diary?"

"Just your name. Victoria."

"Oh. Okay."

"Good day, Miss Godwin." And he was gone. At last.

Tory stayed in the lobby for a while, thinking hard. Finally she rose from her seat on the lumpy sofa and made her way back to her room.

After deleting the thirty-six pages of _t_ and finishing her English Lit. paper, she reached for the phone and a phone book. After flipping the pages for a few minutes she dialed a number.

"Hello, Arkham Asylum, how can I help you?" asked an altogether overly perky woman's voice.

"Hi, this is Victoria Godwin. I'd like to speak to Doctor Warner, please."


	6. You Have a Visitor

Jonathan lay flat on his back, watching the concrete ceiling above him twist and melt like molten lava. A cobra coiled its way up the post of the bed and hissed at him, hood spread menacingly. Outside his cell he could hear heavy footsteps walking up and down, their unseen owner whispering threats into the all-too silent air. Suddenly a black-cloaked figure dropped from the ceiling, wings wide to swallow him up in darkness. Instinctively Jonathan cried out and flung up his arm to protect himself, but just as quickly the Batman vanished.

In other words, it was a normal day.

Jonathan rose and walked slightly unsteadily to his sink, where he splashed cold water on his face. He knew from his experiments with his "medicine" that the hallucinations might never leave him. It had affected different patients differently, even when given the same dosage – some recovered, some did not. He pulled his hand away from his face and watched blood drip from his fingers.

"It's only water," he whispered hoarsely, and concentrated. Abruptly the liquid was completely colorless. Jonathan nodded with satisfaction. Just because the hallucinations would never leave him didn't mean he couldn't control them.

He was getting better at controlling the fear response they had once produced. Not too long ago, he'd occupied a living hell. Now a cobra rearing to strike was simply a vision, not an immediate threat. He couldn't really claim complete credit for that triumph, however. Mostly, his brain had simply become accustomed to this new way of life, and no longer felt it necessary to stimulate a response to each and every mirage. Or, in other words, his brain had gotten tired of being afraid.

One vision still brought terror, however. The Batman.

Jonathan shivered and ran a hand through his tousled brown hair. Now there was a foe of which to be wary.

Even as he thought of him, Jonathan saw him, blending with the shadows in a corner of the cell.

"Crane," the apparition said harshly. "I've come to finish the job."

The dark figure stalked forward, and despite his formidable self-control Jonathan opened his mouth to scream.

A familiar beep rang through his cell, and Jonathan whirled around. The heavy locks clicked, and the steel door swung open slowly. Swiftly Jonathan glanced back over his shoulder, but the Batman was gone. He stood up straight and tried to finger-comb his thick, wavy hair into some kind of order, pulling himself together. It wouldn't do to let his doctors know that he'd divided the morning between dozing in bed and being terrified by visions of local heroes.

"Dr. Warner," he said smoothly as the all-too-familiar figure entered.

"Crane," said Warner. The man was almost beaming. Jonathan was instantly on his guard. Happy psychiatrists were, he'd found, a very bad thing. It meant they were about to try something new and, to them, entertaining. Looking into Warner's merry face, Jonathan was reminded of his own feelings of joy each time he'd pulled out his mask.

_Would you like to see my mask? I use it in my experiments. Probably not very frightening to a guy like you…but those crazies…they can't stand it._

_They scream and they cry…much as you're doing now._

"You have a visitor, Crane," said Warner.

Now Jonathan was really scared.

"Who?" he asked, not bothering to hide his suspicion.

"Why, that young lady you're so fond of. What was her name again? Velma, Virginia…"

"Victoria," whispered Crane, his mouth suddenly parched. He felt as if he were falling, falling into darkness, and all his normally over-busy mind could think was, no.

No. _No_. _NO_!

"She's waiting in the therapy room. If you'll follow me?"

"I don't…" croaked Crane, but his numb brain couldn't find the words, and before he knew it he was being escorted by Warner and two guards to the therapy room.

This couldn't be happening! he thought frantically, and opened his mouth to say, "I don't want to see her."

They opened the door and the protest died in his throat.

Victoria was sitting behind the table, her chin cupped in her hands. As Warner walked in she straightened, her dark eyes moving automatically past the stodgy doctor and meeting Jonathan's icy blue ones. She rose, her short, slim body and delicate features only highlighted by the bleak surroundings of Arkham Asylum.

The darkness within consumed him, and he saw all his surroundings as if through a black and hazy veil. As if through a burlap sack.

_Crane?_

_No. Scarecrow!_

He had intended to be cruel to her, to yell and scream and frighten her so badly she would never return. But seeing her there, so tentative and yet so hopeful, he simply couldn't do it.

He'd meant to spare her – he really had. But now, it was too late. She was going to be his.

Before their time was done, he would own her. He would know every quirk in her mind, every struggle in her soul. And – if he had his way – he would learn every exquisite curve of her body as well.

He'd had this desire before, frequently. Old, young, healthy, crazy, he had ultimately possessed every inmate of Arkham Asylum before his downfall. They had cringed at his footstep and cried at his voice. He could have told them all to jump out of Arkham's highest window and they would have obeyed. Because they were afraid of him, and him alone.

But since he'd gotten a taste of his own medicine (literally), the domineering, grasping part of his psyche – known to all and sundry as Scarecrow – had seemingly disappeared. He'd wondered if, perhaps, the trauma he'd been subjected to had permanently erased his strange obsession with control.

He'd been very, very wrong.

Jonathan sat down, very slowly and carefully, in the chair opposite Victoria. She re-seated herself as well. Her body was tense – she was very nervous. So, he realized, was he. Victoria was not a prisoner, subject to his every whim. If he frightened her, she would run away and never come back, and then he'd never have her. He was going to have to be subtle.

Luckily, he was good at subtle.

"Hello, Tory," he started, keeping his voice low and non-threatening. "I never thought I'd see you again."

"Likewise," she said, with a quick smile. She started to say something, but Jonathan cut her off.

"So," he asked mildly, "how did Warner find you?"

"Maybe he didn't find me," she shot back with surprising quickness, casually leaning forward, arms on the table. "Maybe I just came to see you."

He gave her a Look, and that was the end of that.

She laughed. "Okay, okay, Warner tracked me down. But, honestly, that's not why I'm here."

"Oh?" he inquired, raising one eyebrow. "Then why are you here?"

"It's thoroughly impertinent."

Thatintrigued him."How so?"

"Well," Victoria started, tucking back a strand of hair behind her ear, "it's really not fair for me to ask you this."

"Why don't you ask, and then we'll decide?"

Victoria bent over and pulled her over-large backpack onto her lap. Pulling out a notebook, a pen, and a battered textbook, she lined them up on the table and replaced the backpack underneath her chair.

"The thing is, my Human Development group is giving a presentation on Freud, and frankly, there are some theories of his I just don't get." She twiddled her pen between her fingers and looked at him hesitantly. "I was wondering if maybe you could help."

Jonathan's face broke into a surprising – even to him – grin. "Tory, I would _love _to talk about Freud."

* * *

Hello, me again. Thank you for the reviews! Remember, I welcome constructive criticism.

Okay, I'm going to do a little foreshadowing here. I know Tory seems like a sweet little angel/saviour type figure. I know that's _really _boring. Trust me, though - she won't always be that way. Even Tory has a dark side...duh duh duh _duh._


	7. Kiss and Tell

"You know what I've just realized?" asked Tory, swallowing the last of her cookie.

"What?" mumbled Jon, his mouth equally full.

They were alone in the therapy room, a plate of homemade cookies between them. Tory had started bringing food with her on her third visit, after she'd mistaken the smell from the kitchens for that of a blocked toilet.

"We've only talked about me these past two _sessions_." Tory drawled the last word in playful sarcasm. The idea that these visits were therapy had become something of a private joke between them. "You've barely talked about yourself at all."

It was true. The first visit had been devoted to Freud, the second to Jung. After that they'd discussed war in the Middle East, poverty in Gotham, and Kant's Categorical Imperative. Only on the sixth session had the topic drifted to their personal lives. Tory had started, feeling instinctively that she would have to forge into this new territory before Jon could follow. She'd discussed her life as an English major, her dream of working in a major publishing company and writing on the side, her goal of joining the Peace Corps, her absolutely insane group of friends, and finally her family, particularly her little sister, Ashling.

She really hadn't meant to ramble so long, but Jon seemed very interested in every aspect of her life. Whenever she'd purposefully wound down, hoping to shift the subject to him, he'd asked another question that forced her to continue. Tory had finally decided to be blunt.

"Your turn," she told him, a playful edge to her voice softening the direct words.

Jon swallowed and reached for another cookie. His hand on the platter, his blue eyes flicking up to meet hers, he asked softly, "Are you sure you want to know?"

There was a faint edge to his voice, a hint of warning, that for an entirely unexplainable reason reminded Tory of ancient maps. There was the slightly malformed continent, the wavy lines indicating the sea, and then – nothing. An enormous blank area on the edge of the world, upon which was written nothing except, "Here be dragons."

Jon's tone definitely rang of "Here be dragons."

Luckily, Tory was fond of dragons.

"Tell me about your brother Jackson," was her response.

That surprised him, she could tell, although she doubted anyone else would have seen it.

Jonathan took a cookie but merely held it in his hand as he stared down at the scared surface of the table, apparently lost in thought.

"He's an assassin, right?" prompted Tory.

"Manager," corrected Jon automatically, then appeared to reconsider. "Well, he started as a Kiss-and-Tell, but once he made some connections he switched to management."

"Whoa, back up," said Tory, holding one hand up in the "stop" signal. "You're speaking pure gibberish."

"I am?"

"Lower yourself to the status of mere law-abiding citizens and explain to a poor girl, in plain English, exactly what your brother does. Especially the 'Kiss-and-Tell' part. That sounds kind of hot."

By the time she'd finished the first sentence Jon was smiling a little. When she reached the part about "That sounds hot," the smile had spread and his chest was shaking with his characteristic silent laughter. Color tinged his pale cheeks, and his blue eyes sparkled.

"God, I wish he was here," he said with a chuckle. "He'd love hearing that his job was hot." As fast as it had come the laughter faded, and a brief expression passed swiftly over Jon's face. Grief? Loneliness? He could be so hard to read sometimes.

"You really miss him, don't you?" asked Tory quietly.

His face hardened and he started to say something to the wall over her head, but then he glanced at her sympathetic face. He studied her for a moment, still absently twiddling the cookie between his long fingers. Finally he said, so quietly that Tory barely heard, "Yeah. I do."

Was that really so hard? Tory almost asked, but wisely restrained herself. The loneliness in Jon's voice made her heart ache.

"You two are pretty close, huh?" she asked gently.

"Mm-hmm. Twins usually are." He smiled at her startled look. "Oh, you didn't know?"

"Nope," confessed Tory. "Must have missed the memo. Are you fraternal or…"

"No, identical."

"Jeez," muttered Tory. "Which one of you is older?"

"He is. By twelve minutes." Jon's lips quirked up in a wry smile. "He was always trying to hold it over me, too. I used to say, 'You enjoy your twelve minute head start. I'll enjoy my _four-grade_ lead.' And then he'd say, 'Whatever. At least I had twelve minutes in this world without you.'"

Tory burst into laughter, startling Jon out of his trip down memory lane. "Sorry," Tory giggled, holding her hand over her mouth. "It's just, I can tell you guys just _totally _fed off each other's sarcasm."

"Oh, yes. We were the official smart-asses of Park Avenue."

"Park Avenue? As in Park Avenue, _New York_?" Tory's eyebrows made an impressive effort to reach her hairline.

Jon shrugged carelessly. "Our parents were wealthy."

"That must have been great."

"Not really," he said flatly, his expression slightly dark.

Tory wisely changed the subject. "If you're twins, why do you have different last names?"

"Crane is the family name. Jack changed his when he started working for the wrong side of the law."

"Why Rippner, though?"

"My fault," said Jon promptly, without sounding at all guilty. In fact, he sounded rather amused. "I did my undergraduate thesis on the psychological disorders Jack the Ripper may have suffered, and I teased my brother about being named Jack that whole year. When he became a Kiss-and-Tell and needed to come up with an alias, he thought it would be a great joke to _really_ be named after Jack the Ripper. Obviously Ripper was too obvious, though, so he became Jackson Rippner."

"Speaking of Kiss-and-Tell, you still haven't explained what that is. It sounds dirty."

"It is."

"Well, don't keep me waiting."

And to live up to his reputation as a smart-ass, Jon chose that moment to eat his cookie. Slowly.

"Dammit, Jon…"

"What? Do you want me to starve?" he mumbled with a blatant smirk.

Jon certainly had a very definite – for lack of a better word – naughty streak. Usually he was either formal and polite or bitingly sarcastic, but every once in a while he revealed a flippant side. Still sarcastic, of course, but a more playful sarcasm.

Tory settled for tapping her fingers loudly on the table as he chewed and swallowed.

"Very well," he finally said with a sigh. "Criminology 101. Are you ready?"

"Should I be taking notes?"

"Probably. You will be tested on this." And then there were the times when Jon seemed to forget that he had been fired from Gotham University. "A Kiss-and-Tell is a criminal who uses his or her personal charms to achieve a goal. Although the term is somewhat applicable to thieves and enforcers, it is most commonly used to describe a style of assassination and, by association, the person who utilized that style."

"So Jack _was _an assassin."

"Correct."

"So, let me get this straight: he seduced women, got them in bed, and then killed him?"

Jon grimaced. "Not Jack, although there are some who enjoy taking that route. When I said 'personal charms,' I meant to convey something more along the lines of good looks, witty conversation, the ability to generate an impression of empathy, so on and so forth. The reason that type of assassin is called a 'Kiss-and-Tell' is because they have to get far closer to the victim than, say, a sharpshooter – close enough to kiss, so to speak."

"So, basically, a Kiss-and-Tell has to be likeable."

"Exactly. But it's a bit more than that – a Kiss-and-Tell has to be so likeable that anybody, from the CEO of a major corporation to a street-cleaner, will instantly like them. The best Kiss-and-Tells can appeal to anyone, no matter what age, gender, or class. And because they are so likeable, they can go anywhere."

"What do you mean, anywhere?" Tory was getting really interested. This was like watching _Ocean's Eleven_, only better, because it was real.

"Well, for instance, say you were a Kiss-and-Tell who had been assigned to assassinate a lawyer. How would you do it?"

"Um…chat him up in a bar, go for a walk, and get him with a gun?"

"Can't let anyone hear the gunshot."

"I'd put on a silencer, then."

"He's married and he doesn't drink."

"This isn't fair," accused Tory. "You can't just make it up as you go along. How am I supposed to plan an assassination if I don't know the victim's habits?"

"Fair enough." Jon was smiling, his eyes shining with some emotion Tory couldn't quite place. Was it approval or admiration? "Your man gets up at six o'clock every morning, eats breakfast at home, and is on the subway by seven forty-five. At eight o'clock he's in his office, where he stays until eleven. During the morning he rarely sees clients – generally he gets some paperwork done or researches his cases. At eleven he takes an hour-long break for lunch, which he usually eats in the conference room with several other lawyers."

"Question."

"Yes?"

"Where does he get the lunch?"

"He makes it at home."

"Okay, keep going."

"By twelve he is back in the office, seeing clients. He does more work and goes home at five. He occasionally dines out with his wife, but not by any regular schedule and not at any particular restaurant. Mostly he is a hard-working, stay-at-home sort of man. With, I might add, a high-quality burglar alarm that would be an enormous pain to get past."

"So no getting him at home."

"Right. Furthermore, this man is aware that he has been targeted and is on his guard. What are you going to do?"

"Well…if he took a taxi I'd say kill the driver – or knock him out or bribe him or something – wait by his house, make sure he hails me, and then drive away a bit and kill him in there. But since he takes the subway that won't work."

"No, but it's not a bad idea at all."

"Thanks. I think." Tory couldn't believe she was actually working out how to kill a man, even an imaginary man. Still, it was fun…in a very strange, creepy sort of way. "Can't kill him on the subway, too many witnesses."

"Actually it's been done, but in your case there's an easier option."

Tory stared at Jon's inscrutable face, trying to figure out what the easier option was. "Basically, the only place to kill him is in his office."

"How do you get into his office?"

Tory shrugged. "I'm a pretty young woman. I doubt he'll kick me out. I'll just say something stupid about how I got lost in the building, and could he please point me to Mr. So-and-so's office? It only has to fool him for a minute or two."

"But how do you make it past the secretaries at the entrance?"

"I'll ask, in a polite but desperate tone, 'Please, oh please, can't you tell me where the bathrooms are? I know I don't work here but it's an emergency.'"

"What about _his _secretary? The one who sits right in front of his office?"

That stumped Tory for a moment, and then she suddenly thought of the answer. "I'll tell her that my boss sent me with some important research to give to him."

"Excellent. But how will you escape?"

"Well, he's least busy in the morning. If I killed him right when he came in I'd have three hours to get out of there before his friends came to find him for lunch."

"His secretary is always going in and out of the room."

"That's not fair! You didn't say that."

"Sorry, but I'm afraid it's only realistic."

"Okay." Tory thought hard for a moment. "I'll kill him after he's seen his last client but just before he goes home, and I'll stash him under his desk. Then, if the secretary looks in, she'll think he's gone home. When the wife calls to find out where he is, she'll be told that he already left. They may not even find him until morning, in which case I'll be long gone."

Jon applauded, the sound ringing eerily in the bare room. Tory gave a mock bow.

"You know, you'd make a very good Kiss-and-Tell."

"Again, thank you I think, but I don't see what likeability had to do with all that."

"You didn't? Look at it this way…the secretaries have to like you enough to point you to the bathroom. His personal secretary has to like you enough to let you see her boss. Your target has to like you enough not to suspect that in a very few seconds you are about to kill him."

"Oh! I get it. Someone who was scary or intimidating would never have gotten past all those people. It's not just about being likeable, either – it's about being believable."

"Exactly. The Kiss-and-Tell assassin is the consummate actor."

"And that's what Jack does?"

"That's what Jack _did._ He worked freelance for a couple of years, made some friends, learned some names, and then went into business as a manager."

"So, what does a manager do?"

Jon snagged his glass of water and took a long drink before continuing the "lecture." "A manager's job is very simple. Someone wants a head honcho killed, or a government overthrown, or something else fairly large and complex. The manager gets together the people who can get the job done, puts pressure on the people who need to be pressured, so on and so forth. He doesn't do the actual work, he just gets the different types of criminals to all work together smoothly."

"Oh, okay." Tory frowned. Something didn't quite fit. "I thought Jack _was_ doing some of the work, though. He was trying to get the head of Homeland Security killed, right?"

"Him and his family."

His family, too? Did these people have no compassion? Tory swallowed her disgust and continued. "Wasn't that how he was caught? He was on that red-eye flight trying to get what's-her-name…"

"Lisa Reisert."

"Right, trying to get Reisert to switch the hotel rooms so the guy would be easier to bomb? And he used her father's life as leverage, I remember that…he had a man waiting outside their house, ready to kill her dad if she said no."

"Yeah, that's right."

"And he almost got away with it, but Reisert stabbed him in the throat with a pen and called the hotel to warn them."

"And then Jack lost his temper," said Jon dully, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. Tory could tell from the tone of his voice that this was an old complaint. "The stupid idiot had to go chasing after the girl because she'd mortally wounded his pride." Jon sighed.

"She hurt him, didn't she?"

"She stabbed him in the throat with a pen, in the thigh with her high heel, she shot him, and then Reisert's father shot him," Jon listed bitterly. "And that was before the cops got hold of him."

"Ouch," said Tory, wincing. "But I just don't get it. Why did he take the risk? Why didn't he get somebody else to do the job?"

Jon's jaw hardened. He looked a little bit angry, or perhaps frustrated. "Jack liked to keep in practice," he said shortly, staring at his hands. "And he was conceited enough to believe that he was the only one good enough for that particular job." Jon's voice sank to the lowest of whispers. "And now the fool's going to pay for it with his life."

Tory didn't know what to say. Sorry, perhaps? She was talking to a half-crazed inmate of an asylum famous for its inhumanity, whose beloved twin brother was even now rotting in a prison half a country away, awaiting death by lethal injection. Somehow, "sorry" didn't seem to cut it.

Instead Tory leaned across the table and took Jon's hand into her own, squeezing it in what she hoped was a comforting fashion. Jon looked up quickly, startled, and his hand tensed in her own as if wanting to pull away. But just as Tory started to let go he relaxed and squeezed back, smiling sadly.

A harsh beep rang through the room. Tory's time was up.

Walking out of Arkham's front entrance, Tory lifted her head and let the cool breeze blow her hair out of her face. She was feeling rather strange, as if she was slowly sliding down a dark hole from which there was no escape. Or as if she had lost a piece of herself and would never be able to recover it.

At first she thought it was caused by pretending to be an assassin, but that wasn't it. That had just been a game. Oddly enough, the sinking feeling in her stomach was somehow associated with the surge of sympathy she'd felt for the twins, and the feel of Jon's hand within her own.

What was going on?


	8. Phobic

Good morning, my faithful readers! I just wanted to answer some questions/concerns that you so kindly included in your reviews.

Don't worry, goldenpeaches, this chappie is much darker. I've been trying really hard to strike a balance between keeping Jon creepy and realistic while still making him likeable enough for the reader to understand Tory's attraction. I could use a little help, so I am now appointing you official Dark-O-Meter. If I'm making Jon (or Jack, for that matter) too fluffy, I'm counting on you to let me know.

sexgoddesskat wanted to know if Jon and Tory are ever going to hook up during their sessions. The answer is...you'll find out soon enough, won't you? (wink wink)

emptyvoices, you are completely right - Jackson probably does deserve to die. I, however, am against the death penalty. And just because he's in jail now doesn't mean he's going to stay there. You're right about the work it takes to get a chappie up everyday: I'm exhausted! But I just can't stop myself. I'll think of something cool and then I _have _to write it in. It's like I'm possessed or something...which would fit in nicely with the insanity theme...jk!

cocopuffs jewel, there will indeed be interaction between Scarecrow and Batman. But not until the very end.

Royalty09, just wanted to thank you again for being the first person to review.

And please, everyone, remember: I am a complete review-slut! So make my day and tell me what you think!

* * *

"There's a question I've been waiting for you to ask me," said Victoria as soon as Jonathan sat down. It had been only two days since their last session – the intervals between them were becoming shorter and shorter. "And you haven't."

"Hmm. Cup size?"

She gave him the Look of Doom. "Ha ha, very funny."

"I know, I was just joking," said Jonathan. He was feeling rather relaxed today. He hadn't seen the Batman once all morning. In this particular period of his life, that constituted a Good Day. "What question haven't I asked you?"

Victoria took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then stared straight into his eyes. "What I'm afraid of."

So much for relaxed.

"You're right, I haven't," said Jon. He was aiming for smooth, but nevertheless his voice shook. His heart beat faster, and as for the areas it was pumping blood to…well, hopefully he wouldn't have to stand up for a while. As impressive as his physical reaction was, it was nothing compared to the mental rush those words gave him. Once more his inner darkness swelled up with a rush, and abruptly it was all Jonathan could do not to grab Victoria now and drag her to the floor, to hold her there while he whispered her fears into her ear and watched her scream and cry and writhe beneath him.

Yet…even as the mental picture swam before him, something felt slightly wrong about it. Something felt vaguely out of place.

Mentally Jonathan shook himself. Victoria was saying something.

"For a guy who's obsessed with fear, you've sure been reticent about it."

She was playing hardball, all right. Jonathan wondered briefly if Warner had put her up to this, then dismissed the idea. The directness of Victoria's query and the assertiveness – almost aggressiveness – with which she had spoken indicated that this was something she, personally, was intensely interested in. Which intensely interested him.

"It didn't seem appropriate," he said distantly.

"Death and the dark."

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Death and the dark. Those are the things I'm most afraid of."

Jonathan swallowed, hard. "The former seems reasonable. Very few people are ever actually purged of their fear of death. The latter could probably be reduced with therapy, although it is relatively harmless…" His voice trailed off. Victoria was staring at him incredulously.

"That's it?" she asked, raising her eyebrows. "You're going to tell me to go see a therapist? Some Scarecrow…"

He broke. Lunging from his chair he slammed his hands down on the table, his face mere inches from Victoria's.

"Listen to me," he hissed. "Do you know what you have just done? Do you?"

"No," she whispered, looking thoroughly frightened and thoroughly arousing.

"You have handed me," he whispered back, his eerie blue eyes boring into her dark ones, "the keys to your soul. Do you understand? The keys to your goddamn soul!"

"Jon," she whispered, and he shook to hear her say his name. "You just swore."

"I'm aware of that, Miss Godwin."

"Jon," she said again, "it's not that big a deal."

He laughed – a broken laugh, brittle as straw.

"Not a big deal, she says," he declared to the room at large, coming out from behind his side of the table and running a hand through his hair. "Not a big deal. You _child_."

Now he'd pissed her off. She stood up too, her chair screeching as she pushed it away.

"Don't you call me that," she told him, her voice low and husky with warning. "I am not a child."

"If you can say something like that, you are!" he spat, hands clenched into fists from sheer frustration. "A foolish, simple, hopelessly naïve child!"

"At least I'm not crazy!" she yelled back. Dead silence fell over the room as the two stared at each other.

"I'm sorry," whispered Victoria at last.

"Me, too," said Jonathan quietly. She sat back down, and Jonathan leaned against the table next to her.

It was strange – in all her visits they'd stayed on separate sides of the table. He could feel their relationship changing, mutating, becoming raw and new. He could feel that, and he knew he was getting closer to his goal.

Victoria would be his. But now, he had to make sure that she would belong to him alone. He couldn't take the chance that she would repeat this mistake with another.

"Tory," he said quietly, crossing his arms and looking down at her. "You shouldn't ever tell someone your fears."

"Why not?" she asked, stretching her arm out on the desk and laying her head upon it. Her chin-length hair, layered in a cute, slightly punky style, spread over the table. Jonathan clenched his fist to keep himself from stroking the chestnut strands.

"Because when you do so, you give them power over you."

She raised an eyebrow. She was skeptical.

"Tory…" he shifted his weight a little, gauging the risk of telling her this. Would it frighten her away? Or would it serve to illustrate his point? He had to take the chance. She had to understand this. "Tory, I skipped four grades. I was fourteen when I was a senior in high school."

"Must have been tough," she said sympathetically, raising her head from her arm and propping her chin on her hands.

"It was. I was bullied pretty much constantly. Hardly a week went by that I didn't come home with bruises. It used to infuriate Jackson. He'd come home to find me with a black eye or a bloody nose, and he'd always swear that one day, he'd get them for me."

"Did he?" she asked tentatively.

"No, he never had to. Because I figured something out." Jonathan grimaced a little. "Unfortunately, I figured it out three months before the end of high school. But those were the best three months of my life."

"What did you figure out?"

"That I didn't have to be the strongest, or the fastest, or the best-trained, or the best-armed, to win. I didn't even have to commit a crime." He stopped.

"Go on," said Victoria urgently. He watched her reactions for a moment. She was interested – a little apprehensive, but interested. He continued.

"It was the night of the senior prom. The theme was "Masquerade," which we all interpreted differently. For most of the girls that meant wearing ball gowns and pretty masks, but a lot of the boys decided to wear full costumes. My nickname in high school was Scarecrow, so that's what I went as. It wasn't as bad as I'd thought it might be – I did have a few friends, and we had a pretty good time just talking and taking turns dancing with the one girl in our group. But when it was time for me to go…" he paused, uncertain of how to go on. Victoria was watching him intently, her face serious. "I'd taken a gun with me that night. I'd stolen it from my father's dresser. I knew that a lot of people would be drunk, and that I would be an easy target for all their alcoholic fun." He listened to his own voice turn dark and bitter. "So I hid it in my costume, and no one at the dance knew. But sure enough, as soon as left the hotel the biggest bully of them all snuck up behind me and pushed me to the ground. It was hardly the worst thing he'd ever done, but I'd had enough. I snapped."

"What did you do?" asked Victoria, her voice calmer and steadier than his own.

"He got into the car with his girlfriend and started to pull out of the parking lot. I ran down to the street and pulled out the gun. As he drove past I pointed it at him. His girlfriend saw it and she started to scream. Then he looked over and he saw me."

"I'll never forget the look on his face, Tory. He was so afraid – so deeply afraid. As I had been afraid of him all those years."

"You shot him?" she asked. She was very collected.

"No, I didn't. I just waved the gun. But he sped up to avoid me and crashed into a lamppost. His girlfriend died. He survived – completely paralyzed."

For a second Jonathan forgot with whom he was speaking. His voice was hushed with awe. His face was dreamy, his eyes filled with a ravenous joy.

"They never caught me. The bully tried to tell them what had happened but I had time to hide the gun, and when they tested his blood alcohol level they decided he must have simply driven drunk." Jonathan smiled broadly in remembrance, then abruptly remembered his audience. Quickly he glanced down at her. She was pale but composed.

"Do you understand, Tory? I didn't have to shoot him. I didn't have to try and fight fire with fire. I just had to turn his own weaknesses against him, and I won."

"And by sharing my weaknesses…" Tory said slowly.

"You give your enemies power over you. Fear is power, Tory. The ultimate power. There is no other kind."

An uncomfortable silence reigned.

"Did I make a mistake," asked Victoria suddenly, "sharing my fears with you?" It was awkwardly phrased, but he understood what she meant.

"Don't worry, Tory," he said. "I won't ever hurt you."

It was a lie. His mind knew it was lie, his heart knew it was a lie, his very soul knew it was a lie. Then why, when the words sailed through the air, did they carry the ring of truth?

"What are you afraid of?" she asked.

He shot her an exasperated look. "Did I, or did I not, just lecture about the dangers of sharing your fears?"

She gave him a look back. It said, I trusted you. Will you trust me?

She was right. It was only fair. Not that playing fair had ever been one of his major concerns, but Victoria deserved this.

"You'll laugh," he told her.

"No, I won't," she said promptly, but he could tell that she was already restraining a giggle.

"Birds," he said.

Sure enough, her chest trembled with hidden laughter. Which was an entertaining sight all by itself.

"You promised," he warned her, hiding his own smile.

"I'm sorry, it's just…_Scarecrow_ is afraid of _birds_?" she managed to choke out.

"Not so much afraid of as uncomfortable around. They're just not my favorite animal."

"Right," she said with a trace of a smirk. "Anything else?"

To tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help him…

"Batman," he admitted, voice low as if the mysterious man could somehow hear him.

"Understandable," Victoria said. "To tell you the truth, I know he's a hero, but I think he'd still scare the bejeebers out of me if I met him in some dark alley."

Which made Jonathan feel much better about the whole thing.

"Anything else?" she asked.

"Not really."

"Not even death?"

He thought about it, shook his head. "No, not particularly."

She was quiet for a second, and then she said, "Is that why you always wear long sleeves?"

He was still casually resting one hip on the table by her chair, arms crossed. When she said that, he tensed so hard that his one dangling foot landed back on the floor, and he had to catch himself with one hand on the table.

"The asylum's uniforms," he said coldly, once he regained his balance, "all have long sleeves."

"Yeah," she said. "But I've seen pictures of you from before. Even in summer you never wore short sleeves. I think," she said with desperate boldness, "you have a few scars to hide."

_"Jeez, Jon," Jack muttered as Rosarita stripped the bandages from his forearms. "You're going to be scarred for life."_

_"I already was scarred for life. I have you for a brother, don't I?"_

_It was a mistake – Jack wasn't ready for jokes. He just stared at Jon, his eyes still red from weeping._

_"Don't you _ever_ pull shit like this again. Do you hear me?" Jack said harshly. Rosarita went to dispose of the bandages, and Jack's hand crept into Jon's. His twin's voice was low. "God, Jon. I don't know what I'd do without you."_

_"Likewise," Jon said softly. "Likewise."_

Jon just stared at Victoria, his nostrils flared with anger and his jaw tight. "This," he said flatly, "is none of your business."

"You're right," said Victoria, to his great surprise. "I'm sorry." She buried her face in her hands. "I don't know what's going on with me today. I don't know why I'm picking fights with you. I'm sorry."

He considered that for a moment. "It's okay. Truthfully…it's not all bad. Some of these things it's probably better for me to talk about anyway."

She looked up. Her eyes were swollen and a little red. "Glad to be of help," she said with a shaky smile.

The beep sounded. Time was up.

Warner opened the door, looking mildly surprised when he saw how close the two were.

"All right, Miss Godwin. Better hurry or you'll be late to class."

Victoria rolled her eyes at Jonathan, grabbed her backpack, and got up to go. Warner held the door open for, but just before she stepped through she glanced back over her shoulder.

"Uh, Jon?"

"Yes?"

"It's 32C." And with that parting shot she was gone. But Jonathan didn't stop laughing hysterically until Warner threatened to sedate him.


	9. Jack Is Back

"Dr. Theodore Warner?"

"Speaking."

"This is Captain Cooper of the Miami police." The weary-sounding voice crackled loudly over the phone. "We wanted you to know that Jackson Rippner has escaped."

"My God!" exclaimed Warner loudly, then pulled himself together and asked in a lower voice, "When did this happen?"

"Sometime in the night," Cooper told him. "We're still not sure how. I just thought I'd let you know to be on your guard. It's possible Rippner will try to retrieve his brother."

"Do you think he will?" Warner asked, worry creeping into his tone despite all his efforts.

"Personally? I doubt it. I think Rippner is going to head straight for Mexico and never look back. But I could always be wrong, and I'd hate for you to be caught unawares."

"Right. Well, thank you, Captain."

"You're welcome. We'll keep you updated."

"Yes, yes, please do."

"Bye." The phone clicked off, leaving Warner more than a little apprehensive.

* * *

The subject of their conversation rested his head against the steering wheel. Every second he delayed increased his risk of recapture, but he had to think. 

He'd been planning this escape for almost a year: a year filled with threats, bribes, pulled strings and called-in favors. When he'd suddenly needed to leave a month early, his contacts hadn't been pleased - with the change in date or the reason for it. Not that he gave a damn. It was his life on the line, not theirs.

He had never been worried about his death sentence. He'd always known that he would escape before the actual execution. But there were others who were not content with the long waiting period the state granted its condemned, who would prefer Jack to quietly hang himself in his cell…or at least look like he had.

The day Robert had called was the second-worst day of his life.

So the date had been changed and the escape had been pulled off. Now he was a free man. He could leave the country, right now, and start a new life. It was a tempting prospect except for one thing.

Jon would die.

Or, he could risk his life, battle against all the odds, free Jon from Arkham and escape with him – a plan which would almost certainly result in _both _their deaths.

Decisions, decisions. Except that there really wasn't one.

"Whoso loves, believes the impossible," quoted Jack under his breath, and started the car.


	10. Scarecrow Strikes Twice

Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews! Particularly you, Sara. That's the longest review I've ever had!

This chapter is dedicated to sexgoddesskat. Hope you like!

* * *

"You know we're being watched, don't you?" Jon asked Tory the next day.

"Sort of. I mean, I sort of figured we would be, but when nobody said anything about it I kind of forgot. Are they listening to us, too?"

"Perhaps. I doubt it, though. I'm sure that, if Warner was listening in, he would have used our conversations in my therapy. They're probably just trying to keep you safe."

"He's always asking me what we talked about – Dr. Warner, I mean," Tory said with a sigh. Then his final sentences registered. "Keep me safe? I'd feel a heck of a lot safer if I wasn't stuck in the Arkham version of _1984_. I mean, constant surveillance? How much more 'Big Brother' can you get?"

"It's a very common precaution. Remember," said Jon with a twisted smile, "you're alone in a room with a deranged murderer."

Tory shot him a look that thoroughly negated all his menace. "Sure, but you promised not to hurt me. And even if you wanted to kill me, you don't have your hallucinogen with you – or any weapon at all."

"I know kung-fu," he told her.

"Really?" Tory asked, surprised. "You struck me as more of a tai-chi person."

"No, kung-fu. Crane style," he added with a slight smile.

"Of course," she laughed.

"It wouldn't be particularly useful in attacking you, however. The Crane style mainly teaches defense."

"Useful."

"Very."

She stared at him, eyes narrowed. "Okay, what's up?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't understand."

"Bull. You're acting all constrained and polite."

"There's something wrong with that?"

"It's how you act around strangers. Not around me."

"Ah, yes. Because I've known you for ever so long. A whole – what is it now? – month and a half."

Tory was hurt. Why was he acting this way? "Jon, if this is about yesterday's session…"

"Still feeling guilty for pushing all my buttons? Good."

Now Tory was a little hurt and very pissed. "Jon, will you please just tell me what is going on!"

He stared at her, maintaining his icy calm. Then he seemed to change his mind. His body relaxed and he gave Tory a small smile.

"I'm sorry, Tory. I'm just having a bad day." He rubbed his eyes. "I'm really not angry at you."

"You should be," she said without thinking about, then blushed at the startled amusement on Jon's face. "I mean," she added hesitantly, looking awkwardly at the floor, "I was really being a bitch yesterday. And the worst part is, I don't know why! I was just…" she broke off and looked up at Jon. He was sitting with his forearms on the table, hands clasped. His blue eyes were steadily upon her. She allowed herself the luxury of studying his strong cheekbones and delicate nose, his wavy, dark brown hair and almost criminally kissable lips.

"You confuse me," she said softly.

Something entered Jon's eyes that Tory – as usual – couldn't quite read. She'd never seen it before. "How so?" he asked. His voice, normally deep and smooth, was slightly husky.

Tory thought hard for a minute. She'd been tossing and turning over this problem all night, unable to discover why. Now that she was actually in Jon's presence, however, it seemed a bit easier. "You make me," she started slowly, "feel…discontent."

He didn't seem to have been expecting that. Tory almost grinned at his evident surprise. She waited for him to say something, but he didn't, so she kept going.

"When I'm with you, I…" Tory looked back down at the floor, then up once more. She could feel her cheeks becoming flushed with contained emotion. "I'm tired of all this! I'm tired of going to college, and going to parties, and having superficial little crushes on idiotic guys. I'm tired of the dorms and working as a waitress and arguing with my parents over summer curfew. But mostly, I'm tired of…" Tory paused a second to gather herself, to figure out how to express this deep-seated anger. "I'm tired of being me! Or, well, not being me, but being who everyone thinks of me! I'm short and cute and I do stupid things and I'm witty – and that's all anyone ever cares about! And it should be enough, but it _isn't_. There's _more _to me. I know there is! There's something inside me that just wants to…" Tory made strangling motions with her hands as if throttling the air, unable to express herself. "I'm so tired of being underestimated!" she finally managed to blurt out. "And you…you're the only one who doesn't do that. Underestimate me, I mean." Tory took a deep breath and looked straight into his eyes. "When I'm around you, I feel like there _is _more to me than there seems. And frankly, that's both incredibly scary and incredibly cool…the thing is, I feel more like myself around you, but I'm not sure if being myself is always such a good thing…" Tory finally trailed off, looking appealingly at the man opposite her for reassurance.

Jon was looking at her as if he'd never seen her before. The strange emotion that filled his eyes was even more apparent. When he spoke, his voice was filled with awe. "You're wrong, Tory. I have underestimated you. Terribly."

"Well," she said, one corner of her mouth quirking upward, "you can stop now."

He grinned all of sudden, a full-fledged grin. "I can. But I won't."

He was teasing her, and after Tory's serious confession it came as an enormous relief. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I'll just have to make you."

"I'd like to see you try."

Tory stood up and aimed a playful swat at him across the table. He grabbed her wrist in a surprisingly strong grip.

"Kung fu?" she asked with a laugh.

"Mmm. Common sense," he responded. His whole face was lit up. She'd never seen him like this before.

She knew it was a bad idea. She knew that she and Jon were teetering over a metaphorical precipice, and if they fell there would be nothing that could save them. She did it anyway.

She smacked at him with the other hand, and he grabbed that one, too.

"Got me," she said quietly.

"Yes, I have," he responded simply.

He was so cute. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes damn near glowed. She finally recognized the emotion. Joy. Pure, unadulterated, almost unholy joy. She stared into his eyes, and he stared back.

Her heart was beating so fast. She could feel her pulse flooding with increased rapidity throughout her body, including…well.

Slowly, very slowly, she parted her lips.

He rose from his chair, still holding her wrists captive within his hands. He leaned forward until their faces were mere inches apart. Up close, she could hear his rapid breathing and see the passion in his eyes, and she was thrilled to know that she affected him so deeply.

Slowly, slowly, their mouths came closer.

And met.

Just the faintest brush of lips, barely even a touch.

It took a second for the harsh beeping to register, but when it did they moved quickly. Jon released her wrists and catapulted back to his chair. Tory did the same, trying hard to restrain her fast, panting breaths.

It was too late. Dr. Warner flung open the door and marched in, looking furious. Tory had never seen him angry before. He was followed by two beefy-looking men.

"Miller, Gregorovich, escort Crane back to his cell," Warner said shortly. "I must have a word with Miss Godwin."

Oh, shit, thought Miss Godwin to herself. This time I've really done it.

* * *

Jonathan paced in his cell, his mind reeling. The day had started out badly enough. First he'd had hallucinations all morning, and after the disturbing session with Tory the day before he hadn't been able to resist them properly. Then Warner had warned him – he pondered that pun for a few seconds – to stay on his side of the table, or else. Even a psychiatrist as stupid as Warner knew how to recognize sexual tension, and the cretin had wanted to prevent anything from happening. Well, too late for that now. He'd stayed on his side of the table, hadn't he? Hadn't he? 

Jonathan laughed mockingly, the sound muffled by the padded walls. He wasn't overly surprised to hear it turn into a sob.

She was his! She had been his! She'd wanted him, and he'd wanted her. Badly. He remembered the expression on her face when she'd spilled her guts to him. The glint in her eye, the gritted teeth. Oh, she had surprised him. He'd certainly underestimated her. There was more to this girl than met the eye…and he had a suspicion that whatever lurked within wasn't going to remain hidden for much longer. Restrain an instinct long enough and it will be activated regardless of the presence of the usual stimuli. Or something like that.

But he'd never see it, because he'd never see her again. Warner would take care of that. He'd be locked in this cell for the rest of his days, bashing his head against the wall and fighting the straightjacket and screaming in terror at the top of his lungs. And it wouldn't matter that he owned Victoria now, that she was his, because she'd be free! She'd be free, and she'd go on and lead her normal life with normal people and marry and have children and he would die never seeing her again. Never, never, never.

"Tory!" he screamed, covering his face with his hands. It didn't do any good. A flock of crows flew just above his head, laughing raucously at his misery.

Jonathan knelt on the floor, still hiding his face in his hands. But he didn't need eyes to see what was happening around him. The crows landed on his back and shoulders, pecking at him and cawing in disdain. The shadows of the room pooled in the corners and formed strange figures that whispered threats of death and worse. The floor opened beneath him, and he found himself teetering on the edge of a vast pit filled with flames and screams.

Jonathan tore at his face with his nails, drawing blood, but it wasn't enough. He bit savagely at his hand, ripping the flesh. The pain wasn't helping. The pain wasn't helping!

Then the Batman drifted down from the ceiling and stood in front of him. Tall, menacing, clad in darkness, the Knight looked down upon the kneeling figure at his feet.

"You'll never see her again, Scarecrow," he said in his rough voice, which echoed endlessly around the room. "Only us, forever and ever."

Forever and ever. Forever and ever. Forever and never. Never ever. Never, never, never.

Jonathan curled up in the fetal position and watched his blood pool on the floor, at last – at long last – surrendering his mind.

* * *

"You have overstepped all professional boundaries, Miss Godwin." 

"Well, isn't it just lucky that I'm not a professional, then?"

Warner was turning purple. It was vaguely entertaining. "Miss Godwin, you may have set Crane _months _back in his therapy."

"Funny, y'know. I seem to remember _you _asking _me _to come here. Not the other way around. You said I could help."

"Nice young ladies don't run around kissing crazed criminals!"

"This one does!"

"I cannot allow this behavior to continue!"

"Then turn off the goddamned cameras if you're so squeamish! Or are you jealous?"

"Why, you insolent little…"

"Sir?" One of the guards opened the door. "Dr. Warner? It's Crane. He's having a panic attack. I've never seen him this bad."

Warner shot Tory a "See? I was right," look, then turned back to the guard. "I'm coming." He stood up.

"Me, too," said Tory, also standing.

"No, you're not!"

Tory set her jaw and looked the pudgy doctor straight in the face. "Did you know that Crane hated his parents?"

"Ah…no, he never mentioned it."

"Well, he did to me. Indirectly, anyway. Did you know that he discovered the power of fear as a senior in high school?"

"It wasn't in his profile…"

"Did you know he and his brother are incredibly close?"

"I had a vague impression…"

"You're useless," Tory said flatly. She shoved her way past Warner and the guard and started running towards Jon's cell.

She got there a few seconds before the guard and a good minute before Warner. The guard made as if to take her arm, but Tory glared at him. He must have seen something in her eyes that he didn't care for because he didn't try it again.

Warner was not so easily dissuaded. When he finally rounded the corner - puffing and mopping his brow – he was thoroughly enraged.

"MISS GODWIN!"

"Shut up," Tory whispered, staring horrorstruck into Jon's cell.

He was lying curled up on the floor. His whimpers and cries were audible even through the glass. Tory thought she saw blood on the floor.

Without even thinking she fumbled at the lock.

"Miss Godwin, you have absolutely no idea what you're doing," Warner said in a more reasonable tone of voice. "You are a very smart young woman, but you are not a psychiatrist. I understand that you have become attached to Crane, but that is no reason to put yourself at personal risk."

"Personal risk? There is no personal risk," Tory said over her shoulder. She found the keypad for the lock and typed in some numbers. "He promised not to hurt me."

"And you _believed _him? Miss Godwin, I admire your heart, but you simply don't have the diploma!"

Before he'd finished his sentence Tory had opened the door, slipped through, and was inside the cell.

Warner and the guard both rushed for the door, but the usual codes didn't work.

Tory pushed on the big red button and spoke through the intercom. "Diplomas aren't worth shit if you don't give a damn." Then she forgot them and turned to Crane, ignoring their shouts and poundings on the glass.

Jonathan was still in the fetal position. As she drew closer Tory saw to her horror that the bleeding was much worse than she'd thought. There were open wounds on his hands and a literal pool of blood next to his prone body.

She knelt cautiously beside him, putting her hand on her shoulder. "Jon?" she whispered.

The next thing she knew, his hands were around her throat.

She was lying on her back, Jon on top of her – a pleasing position, but this was hardly the way she'd imagined it. Tory choked and gasped and clawed at his hands and face, but Jon was relentless. His face scratched and bleeding, his blue eyes blazing into her, he laughed at her struggles. It almost hurt worse than her throat, to see the face of the man she loved twisted into something almost demonic.

The edges of her vision were going black and fuzzy, and Tory knew she couldn't last much longer. Yet oddly enough,the rush of adrenaline this thought brought didn't panic her, but cleared her mind. She did the one thing she knew could save her.

She stopped struggling.

With one hand she gently caressed Jon's cheek, and she slid the other up the back of his neck, playing with his hair. The blackness invaded her vision, and then her arms grew weak and dropped, and then there was nothing at all.

She opened her eyes and saw Jon on top of her, his face scratched and bleeding, his eyes wide and terrified. He looked so young.

"Tory?" he whispered. His shaking hand reached out to brush her hair away from her face.

Tory tried to speak, but her throat hurt too much. Not to mention her head.

"Tory, I'm so sorry. I didn't know it was you! God, Tory, I swear I didn't know..."

There was the incredibly loud sound of shattering glass, and then Jon was being hauled off of her by numerous arms.

"Wait! Tory!" he shouted, struggling against strong hands. Tory propped herself on her elbows and watched as a needle was slammed home into the side of his neck. Jon's eyes went wide in pain, then slowly began to close.

"Bye, Tory," he murmured sleepily, sagging against the guards.

Bye, she mouthed back.


	11. Reunion

Ladies and gentleman, put your hands together for...Jackson Rippner!

Jack would just like to say: drink lots of milk, support your local criminal defense lawyer, and review his story. Yes, contrary to all evidence, this story is about Jack. At least, that's what he thinks. So make Jackhappy and review. Because Jack unhappy is a very, very bad thing indeed...

And BTW, I do not own Jackson Rippner, Lisa Reisert, or any of the other characters from Red Eye. Just to let you know.

Okay, one last thing: I did use more profanity in this chapter. Sorry if you're offended, I was going for realism.

* * *

The guard at the entrance of Arkham Asylum inhaled deeply from his cigarette, then blew out a cloud of smoke. He was sitting next to the metal detector, which somehow seemed even more superfluous today than usual. He didn't understand why the Powers That Be had deemed it necessary to scan each and every person who entered the asylum. In fact, he thought they were friggin' nuts. Who in their right mind would want to break _in _to Arkham? 

It was pretty quiet right now. The doctors were all back in from lunch and, except for the exceedingly rare visitor, they were the only ones who willingly walked into this hell-hole. Though that hot chick had showed up here pretty regularly for a while. She hadn't come for about a week, though. Apparently, even her tough little ass wasn't up to being strangled. Crane was just plain stupid. He could think of a _lot _better things to do with the kid than try to kill her…

Damn, time to be official. He flicked his cigarette into a nearby ashtray and stood up with a grunt.

"Please place your bag on the machine and step through the metal detector, sir."

The visitor complied, heaving his heavy bag up onto the sliding black surface and stepping through the arch long before the bag reached the x-ray machine.

"Right. I'm gonna need your name and you're gonna have to sign here…"

The visitor stepped forward to take the clipboard from his hand, lifting his downcast head as he did so. Underneath the worn baseball cap, blue eyes glinted at him.

The guard's jaw slowly dropped. No, there was no friggin' way…

The machine behind them suddenly exploded into shrill beeping, and the guard glanced up automatically. On the screen, the bag's contents were exposed.

This guy was packing enough firepower to conquer France.

His brain numb with panic and disbelief, the guard looked back at the man in front of him. He watched in complete terror as the horrifyingly familiar features smiled at him.

"I believe," said the man very, very quietly, "that you know my brother."

The guard finally managed to get his rear in gear and lunged for him…only to connect with a very hard fist.

His last thoughts as he fell to the floor were, Jesus Christ. There _can't_ be _two _of 'em.

Jackson Rippner, criminal manager and twin brother of Jonathan Crane, grabbed his bag off of the machine and turned off the shrieking alarm.

"Joe!" crackled a voice from the guard's waist. "Joe, what in blazes is goin' on!"

Jack slipped the walkie-talkie from the unconscious man's belt and answered, in a credible imitation of the guard's bored drawl, "Sorry, man. Guy came through and I pressed the wrong buttom. Goddamn piece of shit, why don't they just buy us more ammo?"

"I hear ya, bud. Believe me, I hear ya. Did you sign the visitor in?"

" 'Course I did. I'm not _that _stupid."

"Sure ya aren't. Hey, you all right, bud? You're soundin' kinda hoarse."

"Cold. Probably caught it walkin' around this friggin' cement icebox."

"Yeah, well, just keep away from me."

"My pleasure, asshole."

"Later, shithead. And stay awake!"

Jack took a second to arrange the guard in the chair, silently grimacing at the man's weight. Judging by the conversation, no one was going to think it unlikely that Joe had fallen asleep on duty.

Picking up his bag, Jack turned the corner and started towards Maximum Security.

He'd been here a few times before, to visit Jon when he'd been the director, and he'd memorized the labyrinth-like routes. Infiltrating this place was almost too easy. Every time a doctor or a patient appeared, he simply ducked around a corner. He had his favorite revolver drawn, silencer fixed, but luckily he never had to use it. Not that he minded killing someone – he was just a lousy shot.

Unfortunately, a few changes had been made in the asylum since his last visit. Jack peeked around a corner and quickly dodged back at the sight of a nurse, cursing his lack of time. If he wasn't being pursued, he could have done this properly: studied the guards' habits, bribed or threatened a few, copied the floor plans, hired backup, and so on and so forth. He was having to rush this job and he hated it.

It would be good to see Jon again, though. Even as adults they'd never gone so long as a year without at least one visit. This year, though, the police hadn't even let him call his brother. They'd just coldly informed him, while he was still in the hospital, that Jon had inhaled the hallucinogen he'd been working on, gone stark raving mad, and was incarcerated in Arkham. Jack had no idea how bad Jon was now, or if he'd ever recover. He ground his teeth and absently fingered the scar on his throat. When he came back – if he came back – the first order of business was settling accounts with that bitch Reisert. And after that he planned on taking down the freak show who'd poisoned his brother. What did they call him? Batman.

Only in Gotham, he thought. I mean, come on. Batman? What was this, a comic book?

He took another peek. The nurse was gone. Jack double-checked the silencer on his gun before easing around the corner and walking down it at a fast clip.

God, he hated this covert, macho, kill-them-all sort of thing. Why pull a gun on someone when you can charm them? Saved mess, for one thing. And murder charges. But Kiss-and-Tell wasn't an option here – in fact, the way his face had been splashed all over the news, it might never be again. He'd just have to give up field work once and for all.

_If _he freed Jon, and _if _they managed to get out of here, and _if _they could escape the country with heat from both sides of the law on their heels, and _if _they could find some nice little out-of-the-way country where even the General couldn't find them, _then _he'd have to give up field work once and for all.

Screw it. Concentrate on one thing at time. Now, where was Jon?

He turned a corner and entered a short hallway. A room was at the very end, a padded cell with an observation window as the fourth wall. An observation wall that had recently been replaced, Jack absently noted, seeing the gleaming state of the window and the few fragments of glass still lying around.

Inside was his brother.

Jack's heart skipped a beat, and despite himself – despite years ofpractice in controlling his emotions – he felt tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

Jon was wrapped almost from head-to-toe in a white straightjacket. In addition to that he was strapped firmly to some kind of chair, with a roller extending from the back for him to rest his head on. That's what he was doing now, and his eyes were shut in sleep. Yet it certainly wasn't peaceful sleep – Jon twitched and writhed against his restraints almost constantly, gasping and whimpering audibly.

Jack clenched his fists in sudden fury and stared helplessly through the window, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He thought he'd prepared himself for the worst. He'd been wrong.

Never mind. It didn't matter how far Jon was gone. He'd get him out of here. In a safe place, with his brother to look after him, Jon would recover. End of story. Get back to business.

Quickly Jack scanned the window, looking for any sort of alarm. Nothing. He checked the door and noted the keypad that controlled the multiple locks. No point in trying combinations – there were far too many possible codes. He could have checked for fingerprints, but there was an easier way.

Sharply Jack rapped on the glass.

His twin's eyes opened with a start, and Jack felt a quiet twinge of surprise. For a second, he understood how they must look to outsiders – eerily exact copies, mirror images animated. As children, even their nanny had had trouble telling them apart.

His twin's eyes were open but unseeing, their gaze blatantly haunted and terrorized. Jon writhed against the straightjacket, straining at the rough canvas and the leather straps, before finally collapsing against the chair in defeat. Then, at last, his eyes focused on the person outside his cell.

Jon's stare was completely blank. He didn't recognize his brother.

I'll kill them all, Jack thought savagely to himself. I'll take them all down one by one, I don't care how many people are responsible for this, they're all going to die…

Then Jon's eyes narrowed and seemed to clear. Suddenly they flew open in shock.

Jack grinned at him, but Jon didn't smile back. A tangible, delicate fear was evident on his features, that of a dreamer who doesn't know if he is awake or not.

What's the code? Jack mouthed through the glass, hoping his brother was rational enough to answer.

To his intense relief Jon replied, his lips forming each number carefully: One. Five. Seven. Three. Two. Four. Nine.

Jack pointed at his ear, asking if there was an alarm. Jon shook his head, and Jack punched in the numbers. The door unlocked cooperatively and Jack slipped inside, carefully wedging his gun between the door and the wall. Wouldn't do to be locked inside.

For a second they just looked at each other.

"Nice outfit," Jack told Jon with a nervous grin.

It was a mistake – Jon wasn't ready for jokes. He couldn't take his eyes off his brother.

"Jack?" he finally whispered. "Is it really you?"

"Yeah," said Jack gently, crossing the room and kneeling beside his twin. "Yeah, it's me."

Tears filled Jon's eyes, threatening to spill. He lowered his head and sobbed silently, his slender body shaking.

Jack made as if to hug his brother, then thought better of it. Reaching around to the back of the chair he unbuckled the leather straps that bound Jon to the chair. As he released the last one Jon toppled to the floor, completely helpless in the straightjacket.

"Ouch!"

"It's a padded floor, you big baby," Jack told him, and was intensely relieved to see Jon smile ever-so-slightly. In a few seconds the straightjacket was off and the twins were kneeling on the floor, their arms completely wrapped around each other in a fierce embrace.

"I've been hallucinating," Jon said in a slightly more normal voice, muffled by Jack's shoulder. "I thought you were one of them…"

"Nope, sorry to disappoint," Jack tossed out carelessly, but the way his arms tightened around his brother and the slight shaking of his chest gave him away completely.

After long minutes they finally separated, hands on each others shoulders, studying each other. Jack noticed the healing scratches on his brother's face and scowled.

"You promised me no more of that," he told Jon sharply.

"Well, let's see. After you've spent a year in a straightjacket, terrifed out of your wits, a prisoner inthe very asylum you used to direct, we'll have this conversation again, and you can judge me all you like." Jon's voice was equally sharp, and Jack noted with delight the cold clarity of his tone.

"You haven't changed a bit," he said with grin.

"Neither have you," Jon told him, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

"Thank God," they chorused, and suddenly – for absolutely no rational reason – burst into hysterical laughter.

Then Jack's cell phone exploded into shrill beeping.

"Sorry, I have to take this…"

Jon rolled his eyes and stood up, stretching his long limbs and kicking the straightjacket violently out of the way. Jack flipped open the phone.

"Hello?"

"Jack? Jack, it's me."

"Robert? What's wrong?" Jon paused in his calisthenics and listened in.

"Listen, he's there, he's there! He's in Gotham!"

Jack dropped the hand that was holding the phone. He stared in front of him with numb, blind eyes. Jon took one look at his brother's face and scooped the phone out of his hand.

"Robert? It's Jonathan. What's going on?"

"Jon? Jon! Hey, I heard you were crazy!"

"Always was."

"Damn, it's good to hear your voice. But I can't talk now. You two have got to get out of there! He's coming for you both!"

"Who? Who's coming?" Jon demanded.

Robert and Jack responded at the same time. "The General."

There was a long silence. Then Jon said, "Damn it all to hell."

Jack turned his head sharply to stare, in complete disbelief, at his twin. "Did you just _swear_?" he blurted out.

"Yes. Yes, I did. All right? I do, occasionally, use profanity. Why everyone has to make such an issue of it I don't know…Robert? Are you still there?"

A buzz answered him. Jon flicked the cell phone closed and turned to his brother.

"We're dead," said Jack flatly, looking steadily at the opposite wall. He stated it as fact, then laughed bitterly, shaking his head. "Okay, Leese, are you happy now? You've stabbed me and shot me and cost me my career and now you're going to kill me and my brother, too…happy now, you sadistic bi…"

Jon knelt beside his brother and grabbed his face between his palms. "Focus, Jack," he hissed.

Jack shook his head free and glared at his brother, thoroughly pissed. Then he relaxed, shrugged and sank back on his heels.

"The Keefe job wasn't for the General," Jon said, a slight question in his tone.

"No. It was for some terrorists. But the General recommended me, and I let him down spectacularly."

"And now he's…"

"Pissed out of his mind and coming to kill me."

Jon grabbed Jack's arm urgently. "Jack, you should have gotten out of here. Moved to South America."

Jack looked straight into his brother's eyes and shook his head slowly. "You aren't an assassin, Jon. You haven't worked for the General."

"I worked with the mob…"

"It's not the same. If you work for the mob and screw up, you're dead – bullet in the head, nice and fast. If you work for the General and you screw up, he kills you slow. Makes an example out of you. And if you aren't around to kill, he kills your family, your friends, your coworkers, and the nice old lady you helped across the street two years ago."

Jon didn't say anything, just looked down.

"I couldn't leave you here," Jack said flatly. "And don't give me shit about it, because I know you would've done the same for me."

Slowly, Jon nodded, eyes still on the floor.

Jack lay back slowly on the padded floor, hands behind his head. "At least we'll die together," he whispered, fighting the hysterical laughter that was filling him. "Good exit, eh? Born together and died together. That'll look great on the tombstones…"

A firm hand caught him by the shirt and hauled him to his feet. Startled, Jack found himself staring into Jon's eyes just inches away.

"Excuse me," said Jon flatly, his voice rich with irony, "I'm looking for my brother. He looks just like me and never gives up – not even when it would be infinitely better if he did. He's risked his ass all his life, pulled off miracle after miracle, and I know – I _know_ – that he would never lay down and let some mere mortal finish him off. Seen him anywhere?"

They glared at each other for a moment, four blue eyes blazing. Finally Jack said, extremely grudgingly, "Thanks."

"You're welcome," replied Jon neutrally, releasing Jack's shirt. Jack brushed out the wrinkles and suddenly looked up with a grin.

"It's good to have you back, you crazy son of a bitch."

"Likewise, jackass. Now, mighty manager, come up with a plan. My knowledge of Gotham," Jon bowed low, "is at your disposal."

New life flooded through Jack's veins. They were dead, all right – but they were going to go down fighting. Rapidly he paced up and down the cell, unconsciously mimicking his brother's habit. After a minute he whirled around triumphantly. "I've got one idea," he told his brother.

"And that is?"

"This place is built like a fucking fortress. Is there a way to lock everyone out?"

"Officially, no."

"And unofficially…"

"I did program a command into the main computer system that does exactly that."

"Now that," said Jack, kicking the door open and retrieving his gun, "was smart."

"Of course," said Jon, strolling past his brother and out of his cell. "I am, after all, a genius."


	12. Women of the World, UNITE!

Ladies and gentleman, put your hands together for...Lisa Reisert! Who is appearing in our longest chapter yet. Ouch, my fingers...

* * *

Tory was fast asleep at her desk, her head on her keyboard. A sharp knock on her door jolted her awake. 

"Oh, no," groaned Tory, scrolling up through forty-seven pages of _rrrrrrrr_. "Not _again_!"

_Knock knock._

"Fine, fine!" Tory shouted, stumbling over random papers and piles of clean laundry waiting to be folded. "I'm coming!"

She opened the door to an all-too-familiar face.

"What?" she asked him dully, leaning against the door frame and crossing her arms in a thoroughly hostile manner. Ah, the beauty of body language.

"Ahem, Miss Godwin…" Warner shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. "How are you?"

Tory just stared at him. What did he expect? Oh, I'm just great, Dr. Warner. I really appreciate feeling like a complete fool, and being showed up by you, and crying my eyes out every night because I'm was _stupid _enough to fall in love with someone who's criminally insane…

"How are you?" Tory finally managed to force out in complete disbelief. "Is that it? You came to check up on me and see if I've managed to screw up my life any further? Or did you just drop by to _gloat_?"

"Miss Godwin, really…"

"Because I assure you, it's not necessary at all. I admitted this a week ago. You were right, I was wrong, and I paid for it," Tory interrupted fiercely, fingering the half-healed bruises that ringed her slender neck. "You've won, okay? So why don't you just leave me alone. I have a paper to write." She started to shut the door, but a shoe got in the way. A highly polished man's shoe.

Slowly Tory's gaze traveled upward. Pressed black trousers. Pristine white shirt. Tailored black blazer. Neatly knotted tie. All leading up to the most official-looking face she'd ever seen.

"Miss Godwin, I am Lieutenant Miller of the FBI." He flashed his badge and firmly pulled the door out of Tory's grip. "We need your assistance."

* * *

Lisa stumbled and almost fell down the steps in her haste to get off the plane. She'd never liked planes in the first place, and after that episode with Jack a year ago, she'd made a silent vow never to fly again. 

Unfortunately for her, those FBI agents had been very, very unreasonable. And very, very convincing.

Oh, wonderful. Here came another one.

"Miss Reisert?" he asked, his face as wooden and stoic as all the rest. Lisa nodded and straightened her skirt, trying desperately to pull herself together.

"I'm Lieutenant Miller. If you'll follow me, we have a car waiting."

Ah, yes. The royal "we" of the federal government. You'd think such an all-powerful entity would have been able to spare a few minutes for her to change out of her work clothes before they'd dragged her on this cross-country adventure.

A black Buick was waiting nearby, and Miller opened the door for her. Lisa was surprised to see that the back seat already contained a passenger. She slipped through the open door and took her place beside the strange girl.

"Hi," Lisa said, flashing her a quick smile as she buckled her seatbelt. "I'm…"

"Lisa Reisert. I've heard a lot about you." The girl extended her hand and they shook. "I'm Tory Godwin."

"Tory? That's an unusual name," Lisa said as Miller started the car.

"It's short for Victoria." Tory pulled a bulging backpack onto her lap and began to rifle through it, giving Lisa a moment to study her. Tory's age was difficult to place – she could have been anywhere from sixteen to twenty. She was short and slender, with thick chestnut hair cut in cute, spiky layers that framed her face. She wore jeans, a bright orange tank, a very cropped jeans jacket and exceedingly comfy-looking white sneakers. Lisa felt a pang of envy and wished, for the fourteenth time, that she had a change of clothes.

"Any idea what this is about?" asked Tory, still digging through her pack.

"Nope, sorry," said Lisa. "Not a clue."

"Figured as much. Apple?" Tory asked, retrieving a wad of paper towels from her backpack. Shoving the huge bag back to the floor, she carefully unwrapped a delicious-looking apple.

Lisa felt her stomach growl. They hadn't given her anything to eat, either. "Please."

Tory reached into her back pocket and pulled out a pocketknife. She flicked it open, and despite herself Lisa jumped slightly. Tory didn't seem to notice and started carving the apple. She gave Lisa the first slice on the knife, and Lisa gingerly removed the fruit from the blade.

"Bad associations with knives?" Tory asked casually, cutting a slice for herself.

Lisa paused, her mouth full, and stared at Tory. Tory caught the look and blushed. "Sorry," she apologized, smiling sheepishly, "I think I've picked up some of Jon's bad habits."

Lisa swallowed. "Jon?" she asked.

Tory finished cutting the second slice and also gave that to Lisa, this time with her fingers. Lisa accepted, feeling embarrassed that she was so easily read.

"Jonathan Crane," Tory elaborated as Lisa ate. "Jackson Rippner's brother."

Lisa almost choked. "I've heard about Crane," she managed to gasp, "but I didn't realize…dear God, there's _two _of them?"

Tory grinned impishly. "More than you know. They're twins. Identical."

Lisa shook her head in complete disbelief. "I'm sorry," she said finally, half-laughing. "It's just – there _can't _be _two _of them."

"Unfair, isn't it?" said Tory, chuckling and looking rueful. Lisa shook her head again and bent over in silent laughter, her back shaking and her curls bouncing. She didn't know what was so funny, but it sure felt good to laugh.

The car came to a halt in front of a large, imposing building surrounded by police cars. The Gotham Police Station. "We're here," Miller announced, exiting the car and coming around to open their door.

"Duh duh duh _duh_," whispered Tory with a giggle, throwing Lisa – who had just begun to recover – back into a laughing fit. She liked this girl.

Once inside the station, however, there was no more laughing.

"You've been called in as character experts," Miller told them as soon as they were seated in two uncomfortable chairs just in front of a long wooden desk. On the other side of the desk sat a plump man wearing a doctor's white coat and sweating buckets. Miller stood beside him. Apparently macho lieutenants didn't sit unless they had to.

"Miss Reisert, I'm Dr. Warner," said the fat man. He put his pen to the clipboard in front of him. "I need you to give me your best impression of Jackson Rippner's personality."

Lisa's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

"Just give the impression of Jack you made when you…er…encountered him last year."

Lisa couldn't believe this. The FBI had dragged her from Miami to Gotham to ask her what she _thought _about the man who'd tried to _kill _her?

"Couldn't you have done this over the phone?" she demanded.

"We'll explain later, Miss Reisert," Miller told her. Beside Lisa, Tory gave a quiet, unladylike snort of disbelief. "For now, please just answer the question."

Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die… "He was cocky. Full of himself. But very precise, too. He liked having a plan, and he hated it when things went wrong."

"I see," muttered Warner, scribbling. "Did he mention his brother, Jonathan Crane?"

"No. I know who Crane is, but I had no idea they were brothers." Identical twins, of all things. Yeesh.

"Very precise, you said?"

"Very."

"Likes things planned down to the second."

"Exactly."

"Anything else?"

Lisa thought a bit, trying to separate her emotions from the scenes she was reliving in her head. "He was business-like. He saw doing everything he did as just part of the job, like working at a bank or selling real estate. And he was very enamored of reason over emotion. He seemed to think that women were far more emotional than men were, and weaker." Lisa smiled. It was not a very nice smile. "Until I stabbed him."

Tory put her hands together in quiet applause. Miller glared at her and she stopped. Lisa glanced over at Tory and grinned. Tory grinned back.

"What happened after you stabbed him, Miss Reisert? Emotionally, I mean, not the actual events."

"He lost it," said Lisa quietly, smile completely gone. "Completely lost it. His one goal was to kill me. That was all. He was consumed by rage."

"You mortally wounded his pride," Tory informed Lisa.

"How do you know?" asked Lisa and Warner at the same time.

"Jon told me. He isn't at all angry at you, by the way," Tory added to Lisa. "He's mostly upset with his brother. Said that you wounded Jack's pride and he lost his temper and that he was going to pay for it with his life."

"Ah, yes, Miss Godwin, moving on to Crane…" Warner's voice was smooth, but the frantic tapping of the pen on the clipboard gave him away. He was nervous. Was he nervous of Tory? Lisa studied Tory. The girl was leaning back on her seat, arms crossed, face set into an expression of cool resentment. Yeah, there was definitely some tension between these two.

"Miss Godwin, I realize that you have been privy to information Crane did not feel comfortable giving me." Warner took a deep breath and Lisa wondered what in the world he was talking about. "I'd appreciate it if you'd share."

It words it wasn't an apology, but in tone it certainly was. Tory seemed to think about it for a second, then nodded, relaxing her tense body.

"I will, but I'm not quite sure what you want. Or what this is all about," the girl added, sounding a little irate.

"Just your general impression of Crane's character."

"Jeez," muttered Tory, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Well, he's precise. Like Jack, I suppose. Only not so much in regards to specific plans as to his life in general." Tory stopped. "Sorry, I'm not making any sense."

"Just keep going," Warner assured her, scribbling rapidly.

"Okay. Um…he's got a pretty good sense of humor. Dark and twisted, of course, but still pretty good. He likes to control people, and he uses fear to do it. He's sort of a psychological blackmailer. It isn't just the hallucinogen, either – he's been using fear for a long time." Again, Tory paused. "I'm sorry, I just really don't know what else to say. Other than that he's scary smart. And that he's not rational." Her next words were clearly directed towards Miller. "He may act perfectly reasonable and normal, but he isn't. He doesn't always know what's real and what's not. He sees things that aren't there…and he has awful nightmares…" Tory's voice trailed away, then suddenly became stronger. "He's completely out of his mind sometimes and half out of his mind the rest of the time. He's sick, okay? He needs help. So don't hurt him, all right?" Lisa was intrigued by the worry in Tory's voice. Apparently, so was Miller, who looked down at Warner as if for an explanation. As for Warner himself – was the man actually _blushing_?

What was going on? Lisa wondered, not for the first or the last time.

"Thank you, Miss Godwin," was Warner's hasty response. "That will do."

"Great," said Tory, smiling rather wickedly. "Always happy to help. Now…what is all this about?"

"_Yes_," agreed Lisa emphatically, finally allowing her frustration to seep into her voice.

Miller became, if it was possible, even more official. "Today, at approximately 1330, Jackson Rippner entered Arkham Asylum. He freed his brother Jonathan Crane – we're not sure how – and pulled the fire alarm. As the inmates and staff were evacuated, the orderlies who came for Crane were rendered unconscious. They are still in the building. Nobody noticed Crane or the orderlies' absence until roll call was taken outside. By then, Crane somehow managed to lock every door of the Asylum, effectively sealing himself and Rippner inside. We now have a hostage situation. Rippner and Crane are demanding a private helicopter and no police pursuit, or they will start killing the three men inside. We have an hour before the death of the first man. The FBI desired your character evaluations of Crane and Rippner to determine their motives, their ability to follow through with their threats, and the course of action we must take. Any questions?"

Lisa just stared. Whatever she'd expected, it hadn't been this. She thought of something.

"Lieutenant Miller, why am I here? You could have called me in Miami, or had the local police question me."

"In addition to your valuable input, the FBI desired the presence of you and Miss Godwin to ensure your safety. It is no secret, Miss Reisert, that Rippner wants revenge, and we would prefer to have you directly under surveillance during this crucial period. Now, Lieutenant Gordon will escort you to a conference room, where you will spend your time until this situation is resolved."

A thin, tired-looking man with a mustache and a kind smile abruptly appeared behind the stunned women.

"Ladies, if you'll follow me?"

* * *

"This is bullshit," Tory muttered, her head in her hands. 

Lisa nodded her head in agreement. They'd been sitting in a tiny conference room for half an hour. Lieutenant Gordon had been quite nice and given them each a soda, but then he'd been called away and they'd been left all alone.

"How do you know Jon?" Lisa asked, taking a sip.

Tory stretched her arm out on the table and laid her head on it. "Long story."

"I'd like to hear it, if you don't mind."

"Sure," said Tory, straightening. "It's kind of strange, though. I've never told anyone before."

"Well," said Lisa with a smile, "let me be your first. I'm dying of curiosity!"

"It's a pretty weird story, all right. I was on a field trip for my Human Development class – I'm a sophomore at Gotham U – and I did just about the stupidest thing you can imagine."

"That would be…"

"I got lost."

Lisa laughed despite herself. She couldn't help it – the expression on Tory's face was too much.

"Sorry," she chuckled, waving her hand at Tory. "Keep going."

"I got lost and I ended up, somehow, I still don't know how, in Maximum Security, where Jon is. His cell isn't like the others – it has a huge observation window in it, and I could see that he was having a really bad nightmare. So I rapped on the glass and woke him up." Tory took a gulp of soda. "We talked for a bit, and he gave me directions out of Arkham. I had no idea who he was and never expected to see him again. But then Dr. Warner tracked me down and told me that Jon had written my name in his diary, and he eventually came up with the swell idea that I should go and visit him regularly. Sort of unofficial therapy."

"Did you know who he was?" Lisa asked.

"By then? Oh, yes. And it came as a nasty shock, too. But I went anyway, and we talked a lot – at first about psychology and politics and other things like that, but then gradually more and more about ourselves. And we became, well, friends."

"Understandable," said Lisa in her best neutral tone, long practiced upon irate residents of the Atlantic Lux. Actually, she didn't understand at all. But then, she'd only had experience with one of the twins. Maybe his brother was different.

Tory looked as if she were struggling to decide what to say. Finally she said, slowly, "Then, one day, just after he'd left therapy, Jon had a panic attack. A bad one. He was terrified out of his skull, and he kept hurting himself to try and deal, but it didn't work…" Tory's voice trailed off, her eyes filled with pain. "Dr. Warner told me not too, but I got into his cell and tried to help. And got strangled for my pains," she added with a bitter laugh.

"Strangled?" asked Lisa incredulously.

In answer, Tory pulled the collar of the jeans jacket away from her neck. On her skin were the clear imprints of hands, done in the tasteful yellow-and-green of healing bruises.

"And after that Warner wouldn't let me see him again," Tory finished dully, picking up her soda and draining it.

Okay, that accounted for some of the tension between Warner and Tory…but Lisa had a shrewd suspicion that Tory wasn't telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth. Still, she let it pass. Watching Tory stare down at her hands, Lisa felt a pang of sympathy. Tory didn't deserve this. A young woman shouldn't have to carry the burden of anyone's mental health but her own.

Suddenly an anomaly struck Lisa. "Sorry, Tory, but there's just one thing I don't understand."

"What?" asked Tory quickly, too quickly. Lisa was sure now that she was right. There were things Tory hadn't told her.

"It's just…how did you get into the cell?"

Tory gaped at her, jaw dropped, eyes wide. Then she started banging her head on the table.

Lisa pushed her chair back with a screech and hurried around to make her stop. But just as she reached for Tory's head the girl stopped on her own. She buried her face in her hands, back shaking madly. For one second, Lisa thought she was crying. Then she realized Tory was laughing.

"I…am so…freaking stupid," she managed to choke out between bursts of silent laughter.

"No, you're not," reassured Lisa automatically. "Wait…what are you talking about?"

Tory laid her abused head on the desk and laughed and laughed. "Oh, my God," she gasped, wiping tears out of her eyes. "I can't believe it. I can't believe it. The irony is going to freakin' kill me."

"What, Tory?" Lisa asked urgently, her hand on the younger woman's shoulders. "What is it?"

Tory sat up and turned in her chair to face Lisa. "I know how to get into Arkham," she said simply.

"You do?" asked Lisa incredulously, her heart swelling as Tory nodded. "That's great! Quick, we have to tell the FBI…" She was already heading for the door when Tory grabbed her skirt, almost making Lisa fall off her high heels.

"No," said Tory, letting her go.

Lisa turned around. "What do you mean, no?" she demanded. "Tory, people are going to _die._"

"_More _people are going to die if we tell the FBI." Tory stood up and brushed a drop of soda off of her jacket. "They'll march in and shoot everything in sight. Jon and Jack will fight back. The orderlies will be killed in the struggle, FBI agents will be killed, and finally Jon and Jack will be killed. A blood bath for the whole family."

"Tory, I know you like Jon," said Lisa in her best please-be-reasonable voice. "But he tried to destroy Gotham. He tried to kill hundreds of thousands of people. And God knows how many people Jack has killed over the years. We can't just let them get away with this."

"We're not going to."

"We _will_ if we don't tell the FBI!"

"And then we'll be responsible for the death of three innocent men and who knows how many agents." Tory came close to Lisa and looked straight in her eyes. Lisa stared back, a little disturbed. Something was happening to Tory that she didn't understand. Something had changed. There was tension humming along her slim lines, and a curious elation in her eyes.

They stared each other down. Tory won. "All right," said Lisa finally with a sigh. "Let's hear _your_ plan."

"Simple," said Tory, walking past her and opening the door. "I'm breaking in to Arkham. Want to come?"

* * *

Okay, I know this chapter was a little slower than usual but it was necessary. Trust me, the next one will be FUN.

By the way, if anyone's interested, most of the details of Crane's life come from the Comicverse. Him knowing kung fu (actually, in the comic they call it "violent dancing," which I'm going to play with later), the fact that he was fired from Gotham U, and that whole episode after his senior prom are all from the comic. I should only be so clever.


	13. Battle of Equals

Thank you soooooooooooo much for the reviews! I always appreciate your opinions and speculations. The speculations are particularly fun. However, I do feel obligated to lay one rumor to rest. Lisa is not a main character in this fic. This chapter is Lisa's Big Moment. She will probably have a fairly significant role to play towards the end, but this story really only focuses on Jack, Jon, and Tory. Sorry to disappoint. I know people were having fun setting up Lisa and Jack, but I just don't see that happening. At least, not yet. Now, if I ever write a sequel...who knows?

* * *

"It's called Kiss-and-Tell," Tory informed a skeptical Lisa as they crouched, action-star-style, behind a bush mere yards away from one of Arkham's side entrances – a plain door set stolidly in the concrete wall, a keypad just below the handle.

And three armed guards standing nearby.

"Kiss-and-Tell?" whispered Lisa back. "We have to kiss them?"

"Hopefully not. It's just the art of being likeable to get what you want. Jack does it all the time."

"Oh, that _really _recommends it in my eyes," muttered Lisa. This whole adventure was becoming more and more risky. And Tory was really beginning to worry Lisa. The girl's hands were shaking ever-so-slightly, and her eyes gleamed strangely. Lisa wondered briefly if she was on drugs, then dismissed the idea. She hadn't seen Tory take anything.

"Tory…we should go back."

Tory turned to face her, eyes almost feverishly bright. "No!" she whispered. "We can do this! Just give me a second…"

Lisa very much doubted that Tory could come up with anything, but she kept quiet. Hopefully Tory would soon give up.

Clouds had fallen over Gotham, banishing the afternoon sunshine and casting a twilight gloom over everything in sight. Suddenly, the twilight gloom became much darker. Tory, Lisa, and the three FBI agents all looked up.

A black-clad figure soared overhead to land on the rooftop.

The agents started shouting into walkie-talkies and ran around the corner of the building, guns at the ready. Leaving the door very much alone.

Before Lisa could stop her, Tory ran out from behind the bush and began to tap frantically at the keypad. Lisa followed her, wincing as she almost twisted her ankle in the grass. Stupid high heels.

"Tory, if they come back…" she started.

The door opened.

Lisa stared at the black hole that had suddenly appeared before her, wondering how a simple door could look so menacing. Tory didn't give her time to think about it long, because she slipped inside and held open the door with her arm.

"Coming?"

* * *

Jonathan opened the door to Warner's office and slipped inside. Flicking on the lights, he took a moment to peruse, with disgust, the changes that had been made to his old office. Mainly, the enormous mess that had taken the place of his neat, tidy room. 

Well, some changes may have been made. But the desk – a heavy oaken affair – was still the same.

Jonathan knelt beside the desk and pulled open its lowest drawer on the left, dumping out the random assortment of papers and – well, well, well. A well-thumbed collection of _Playboy_s. Really, Dr. Warner, how crude.

When the drawer was empty at last, Jonathan pressed a seemingly innocent bump in the woodwork. He smiled as the false bottom unlocked with a click. Pulling out the slab of wood and placing it beside him, he reached down into the drawer and lifted out his treasures.

Ten small capsules, two tangles of leather, and a small white package.

The process was repeated on the drawer on the right, minus the _Playboy_s, and this time Jonathan pulled out a burlap sack with holes for eyes, a stitched mouth, and a tiny air filter. It was gas mask and identity all in one.

Jonathan held up the mask so that its empty eyes faced him.

"Hello, Scarecrow, old friend," he whispered, his voice growing rougher and deeper. "Are you ready to play?"

There was some slight noise upstairs, and Jonathan jumped. He relaxed, panting slightly, when he heard the faint, familiar voice of his brother. Almost familiar. There was a faint huskiness to it now, a wheeze on the intake and a little hiss on the sibilants. Jonathan hadn't mentioned it, however. He'd look at the injury later and see if there was anything to be done.

Hurriedly, Jonathan snatched up the capsules and his mask and ran back up the stairs. He entered Arkham's largest conference room just as his brother was putting down the phone.

"They're still stalling," Jack informed him coolly. "Well, they have ten minutes."

Jonathan nodded. "Where are they, by the way?"

"The orderlies? In your cell." Jack grinned and Jonathan grinned back.

"What a lovely place to put them."

"Thought you'd say that," said Jack, casually flinging himself into a rolling chair and accidentally sending himself halfway across the room. "What have you got there, by the way?" he said as he pushed off the nearest wall and rolled back to the table.

Jonathan held up his most prized possessions.

"Thought they took that from you – the mask, I mean." said Jack, leaning forward in interest.

"I made an extra."

"Of course you did," said Jack with a smirk. Jonathan laid the mask on the table and set to work, rolling up the long sleeves of his Arkham uniform to fasten the capsules to his wrists with his hand-made holsters. As he did so, he happened to glance upward, and saw Jack's eyes fastened upon his arms. Old emotions glared at him from his twin's blue eyes. Old anger, old fear.

Jonathan hadn't looked at his wrists in years. He did now. There was a crosshatch of thin white lines on the lower half of his forearm, where decades ago he'd carefully cut to enjoy the relief of pain. Hidden from view, of course, were the matching crosshatches on his upper thighs. And then there were the long white marks starting from just below his hands to almost his elbow, from a time when he'd wanted more relief than mere pain could offer.

Jonathan studied his scars, then deliberately fastened the capsules over them, hiding them from view. Jonathan sensed his twin's confused tangle of emotions transform into curiosity.

"Do they really work?"

"Certainly." Jonathan finished one wrist, rolled the orange sleeve down, and started on the other. "When I lift my hand back and bend my wrist," he explained, demonstrating with his empty arm, "the cap on the capsule opens and the gas is released."

"How much of the gas do you have?"

"Ten capsules. Enough to get us through this."

Jack leaned forward and picked up the mask, feeling its ragged edges and grotesque frown with sensitive fingertips. He made a move as if to put it on, but had it snatched out of his hand.

"Hey!" he protested.

"My villainous identity. You come up with your own."

Jack stuck his lower lip out slightly and pouted. "Fine, then. Let me see it on you."

Jonathan rolled down his second sleeve and slowly, almost ceremoniously, drew the sack over his head.

By the time the rough cloth settled itself around his features, Jonathan was shaking with repressed joy. Old emotions and desires, long beaten back, roared through him. The hallucinations that had plagued him vanished, the fears that had driven him for so long were gone.

He was Scarecrow. He was the _master _of fear. And no one – not even Batman – could stop him.

"You're fucked up, you know," his brother told him cheerfully, bringing him out of his reverie. "Completely out of your fucking mind."

Jonathan just laughed, a deep, demonic sound. "Come on," he whispered harshly, pushing open the door. "Time's up."

* * *

"How does this work?" Lisa asked, pulling her hair over one shoulder and bending down in front of the computer. It had been ridiculously easy, making it to the security room. They didn't know where Jack and Jon were, but the place was big enough that they were relatively secure from running into them. 

"Jon taught me a code," Tory explained, "that will open any door in Arkham Asylum. If you add an extra digit to the code it will automatically lock the door behind you. I used it to get into his cell that one time, and I'm sure it's what he's using now."

"How do we undo it?"

"That's the problem. I know the code, but I don't know anything about computers."

"I do," said Lisa, and she sat on the swivel seat in front of it. Typing and clicking for a full minute, she finally stood up.

"Okay, you're good to go."

Tory sat down in Lisa's place and quickly typed in a number. A small window popped up, asking if she was sure. She clicked yes.

There was a resounding answering click as every door in Arkham Asylum unlocked simultaneously.

Tory and Lisa both froze.

"I think they heard that," said Tory softly.

"Yeah, I'd say that's a pretty safe bet." Lisa took a deep breath. "All right, they know someone's here. But they don't know who. They'll be looking for a lot of FBI agents with guns, making a lot of noise. Not us."

"But they do know where we are," pointed out Tory. "So let's get out of here."

They quickly exited the security room and fled down the corridor, Tory in her silent tennis shoes, Lisa in her stocking feet – she'd long ago abandoned the heels.

"Where to?" asked Lisa as they rounded a corner.

"To get the orderlies out," said Tory in return. She yanked open the door to a staircase and motioned Lisa up.

"They could be anywhere," Lisa said as she began to run quickly up the stairs. She was panting a little by now. So was Tory. "This place is full of cells."

"They could be anywhere," gasped Tory grimly, right behind Lisa. "But I'll bet you anything they're in Jon's cell."

* * *

"What the hell was that?" Jack demanded, turning to Jon. His brother didn't reply but made a sharp turn and opened the staircase's door. He was starting down it when Jack grabbed his orange jumpsuit and hauled him back. 

"What are you doing?"

To Jack's relief, despite the fact he still wore the mask, Jon answered in his normal voice. "Someone's unlocked every door in Arkham. We're wide open."

Despite himself, Jack blanched. Jon tried to pull himself free but Jack tightened his grip.

"Let me go!"

"Like hell. There's probably a SWAT team down there armed to the teeth. I'm not letting you walk right into their arms."

"There is no SWAT team."

"What? How do you know?" demanded Jack. Jon tore himself loose and turned to face his brother, face obscured by the mask, blue eyes glinting through the holes.

"I gave that code to one other person and one alone. Victoria."

"Who the hell is Victoria?" snapped Jack.

"She's mine," was Jon's simple response. "My girl."

Jack looked at Jon in disbelief. "Let me get this straight," he said, sounding more than a little injured. "You have a girlfriend and you didn't _tell_ me?"

"There wasn't time. And she's not my girlfriend. Yet," Jon added, a hint of deadly anticipation in that last word. "The point is, only she has the code."

"Fine. She told the police."

"Aren't you listening to me? She's _mine_, Jack. I _own _her. Will Tory try to set the hostages free? Yes. Will she help me be recaptured? Maybe. Will she let the police shoot me down? No."

"So you're saying…"

"She's here. Alone. I can handle her. And I'll relock the doors."

"Fine," Jack told him. "You do that. I'll go make sure the hostages haven't escaped."

They hurried off in opposite directions.

* * *

Tory and Lisa, their ears alert for any sound of pursuit, finally turned the last corner and faced Crane's cell. Its enormous window revealed three men inside, bound and gagged. 

Tory pulled open the door and she and Lisa went inside. The eyes of the hostages watched them piteously, unsure whether these women were salvation or destruction.

When Tory pulled out her knife, they flinched. But as she sawed through the first one's bonds his eyes overflowed with tears of gratitude.

"Thank you," he gasped as she pulled the gag free. "Have you come to rescue us?"

"Yes, we have," Lisa told him, helping him to his feet as Tory started in on the others. The young man's body shook with sobs, and the tears flowed freely down his face.

"He said I was first," the young man whispered, his eyes wide and haunted. "He said they were going to kill me first."

"You're safe now," said Lisa firmly, feeling a sudden flash of rage. How could people dothis? How could they treat their fellow human beings this way? How did Jack _sleep _at night?

The rage boiled down, but a simmering anger was left, and a sudden streak of savagery. She'd defeated Jack once. She would do it again. She'd land his ass in jail, this time for good.

Two freed, one to go.

Just as Tory slashed through the rope on the third man's wrists Lisa heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Out! Quick!" she hissed. The hostages didn't need any incentive. They practically flung themselves out the door. Lisa followed, then Tory.

The footsteps were getting closer.

"Down the stairs! Quickly!" Tory whispered, pointing with her knife. Lisa held the door open as first the hostages ran down, then Tory.

Then Jack rounded the corner.

For a second he and Lisa just stared at each other. She saw utter confusion cross his face, then realization, and finally rage. Bestial, consuming, inhuman rage.

He ran for her, shoes loud against the cement floor. Lisa closed the door and then, just as Jack was grabbing the handle, opened it again. Into his face.

Jack fell back onto the floor, blood running down his face. She'd broken his nose.

Lisa didn't wait for him to get up, but took off running after her co-conspirator and the hostages.

It was only seconds before she heard pounding footsteps behind her.

"Run!" she shouted, abandoning stealth entirely. She jumped down the stairs in her panty-hose, skipping two to three steps at a time.

"Here!" she heard Tory gasp, and came around the corner of the staircase just in time to see the men and Tory vanish through a corridor door. Lisa squeezed herself through the gap in the closing door just as Jack started down that flight of stairs.

Had he seen them? Maybe, maybe not. But they weren't waiting here to find out. The five of them ran down the corridor, taking corners at random, trying to lose their persistent pursuer.

At last, when they stopped for breath, Lisa could no longer hear Jack behind them.

"What floor are we on?" she whispered to Tory.

"I don't know, I didn't count. It looks familiar, though."

Suddenly, there was a loud, echoing click that sounded as if it was coming from everywhere.

"Oh, shit," said Tory breathlessly. "They relocked the doors. Good thing you took off your shoes, huh?"

"Wait a minute," said Lisa slowly. She edged cautiously around a corner and pointed at a closed door. "That's the security room. We're on the ground floor."

And again, as if on cue, the security room's door opened. Lisa and Tory both ducked back.

"It's Jon," breathed Tory into Lisa's ear. "Get them out of here."

"No, Tory, don't!"

But it was too late. Tory stepped around the corner into full view. Then gasped audibly.

"Tory," breathed a man's voice. A rough voice, splintery and hollow yet curiously resonant.

Tory cried out and took off in the opposite direction. Lisa flattened herself against the wall as Crane ran past, but he didn't see them. He simply sprinted after Tory, a slender figure in an orange jumpsuit with a burlap sack on his head.

Tory, thought Lisa, you have very strange taste.

She couldn't believe what Tory had just done. But apparently Tory believed that she was safe with Crane, and there was nothing Lisa could do to stop her now. Her job was to get the hostages out and that's what she was going to do.

Lisa whispered her orders and the hostages, two of which at least were bordering on shock, obeyed with blind faith.

They walked rapidly down first one corridor, then another. At first Lisa was afraid she'd get lost, but soon everything began to look very familiar. They were only a few turns away from the exit. Lisa's heart was beating so loud that she was sure it was audible to the others. They were going to make it. They were going to make it!

She rounded the second-to-last corner.

"Hi, Leese," her archenemy said hoarsely, his breathing ragged. He smirked, blue eyes glinting murderously. "Having fun?

Lisa lost it. She forgot that Jack was taller and weighed more and was probably armed. She forgot all of that and lunged at him.

They fell to the floor in a tangled heap of flailing limbs and grim determination. Jack caught her by the hair and pulled savagely, making her scream. He managed to roll her over and straddled her, hand on her throat.

"I'm going to enjoy this," he breathed into her face, their lips almost touching. Then he cried out in pain and fell forward, rolling off of Lisa.

The hostages fell upon him savagely, kicking and punching with abandon. Jack curled up on the floor, protecting his vital parts. Lisa managed to rise to her feet. In a way, she was grateful that Jack hated her so intensely. It had certainly distracted him enough to forget that she was with three other men.

But she knew Jack wouldn't lie down and take it forever. He was just surprised. In a second, he would begin to hit back. And she was sure Jack knew a lot more about fighting than the orderlies.

"Come on!" she shouted at them. They left their former tormentor and followed her so obediently she wished they worked at the Lux. Lisa risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Jack was rising to his feet, his nose smashed and bloody, his arm hanging awkardly. And still he began to run after them.

This man did _not _know how to quit!

At last they entered a long hallway with a single door at the end.

"You can't get out, Leese!" she heard Jack shout behind her. "The doors have been relocked!"

Hell of a lot you know, she replied joyfully in her mind. A strip of daylight pierced the dark passage, and as they neared the door it was obvious to everyone why. A high heel was jammed between the door and the wall.

Jack cried out in rage, but it was too late. They were through the door long before he reached them. The last thing Lisa saw was Jack, his bloody face contorted with rage, reaching for her.

Then she slammed the door.

"Freeze!" shouted an official voice. Lisa turned to see her and the hostages surrounded by a lot of men holding a lot of guns. Instinctively she threw her up her hands.

"Don't shoot!" she called out.

"Miss Reisert?" asked a deep male voice, and Lieutenant Miller pushed his way past the SWAT members. He stopped sharply and inhaled audibly when he saw who was with her.

Slowly, he raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

"The hostages have been freed. I repeat, the hostages have been freed. Blow a hole in the wall and send the SWAT team in."

"You can't!" Lisa shouted, dropping her hands. Lieutenant Miller paused.

"Why not?" he demanded. He sounded curiously respectful, as if he might actually listen to her opinion.

"Because Tory's still in there."


	14. In Love and War

Yay for smooches and strangling! And that's all I have to say.

* * *

Tory slammed the door of the women's restroom shut and leaned against it, every limb trembling. The adrenaline rush this whole fiasco had given her was becoming unbearable. She needed to _do _something, _fight _someone… 

But now wasn't the time for that. So with difficulty Tory calmed herself down, took a deep breath and listened carefully.

Footsteps echoed dimly. Far away, but getting closer. He was still after her.

Tory pushed herself away from the door and padded silently to the nearest stall. Closing the door but not latching it – that would give the game away – she climbed up on top of the toilet. Luckily she was short enough that her head didn't stick out over the top.

The footsteps grew louder, and despite herself Tory felt a thrill of fear in her stomach. She thought she'd be able to handle anything Jon could throw at her. Well, she'd been wrong. Because Scarecrow scared the bejeebers out of her.

"It's just a mask," she breathed to herself, but the reassurance was not very reassuring. Because it wasn't just a mask. It was the symbol of a whole alternate personality…one that was probably intent on scaring her to death. Or worse.

The footsteps came closer, closer…stopped. There was a slight tapping noise. The door opened.

He was here.

"Tory," Scarecrow whispered. His voice was so different from Jon's smooth, pleasant tone – it was as if they were really two different people. Only, of course, they weren't.

Tory had the glimmerings of an idea.

"Tory," he said again, and laughed. The sound echoed off the hard walls and floor, surrounding her with the maniacal chuckle.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are…"

He was drawing it out. Trying to scare her.

That was it!

Scarecrow fed on fear. It was his forte. The only way to fight him was to have no fears at all…or to act as if you didn't.

_She was lying on her back, Jon on top of her. His face scratched and bleeding, his blue eyes blazing into her, he laughed at her struggles. _

_The edges of her vision were going black and fuzzy, and Tory knew she couldn't last much longer._

_She stopped struggling._

_With one hand she gently caressed Jon's cheek, and she slid the other up the back of his neck, playing with his hair. _

_She stopped struggling._

Tory stepped off the toilet and flushed it, then opened the door. Scarecrow was standing at the other end of the tiny bathroom. He inhaled sharply when Tory stepped out.

Tory ignored him. She went to the sink and washed her hands.

"Hello, Jon," she tossed calmly over her shoulder.

"No!" hissed the macabre figure. "Scarecrow!"

Tory thought about that for a second as she pulled out a paper towel. "Yes," she finally said quietly. "You are Scarecrow. Scarecrow is a part of Jon. And Jon," she added, tossing the towel into the trash and turning to face her opponent, "promised never to hurt me."

Scarecrow watched her for a moment, blue eyes glinting between the rough cloth. At last Jon said, in his normal voice, "Good answer."

"I learned from the best," said Tory with a small smile.

Jon leaned against the wall and slid down, pulling off his mask as he did so. His hair was even more tousled than usual, and Tory battled the urge to run her fingers through it. "Didn't really do too well," he said softly.

"With what?"

"Keeping that promise."

For a second Tory's mind was blank. Then: "Oh!" she said, touching her neck. "Well, that wasn't really your fault. You didn't know who I was."

"I swear, Tory," he said earnestly, "I had no idea…"

"I know, Jon. I know."

Jon sighed and rose to his feet, mask in hand. "I'd better get back. Jack will need my help."

"What about me?" asked Tory. "Are you just going to let me go?"

Jon smiled a very strange smile.

"I'm sorry? Did I imply that?" he asked smoothly. Slowly he came forward.

"Jon," Tory said warningly, clenching her fists and crouching in a defensive position. But he proved to be as good at undoing her defenses as she was his.

They were inches apart, staring into each others' eyes, and she couldn't find it in herself to strike him.

Slowly, carefully, Jon reached out a hand and stroked Tory's cheek. Almost against her will Tory leaned into the caress, turning her head so that her lips brushed his palm.

Gently her pushed her back against the wall, then pressed himself against her. She gasped at the sensation of their bodies meeting for the first time. He was so warm and so real against her, his lean, strong lines contrasting excitingly with her curves.

His other hand slipped up the back of her neck and played with her hair, mimicking the gesture she'd used on him. Then he tangled a few locks around his fingers and pulled her head back. Tory gasped, a little from pain, mostly from anticipation.

His right hand left her cheek and moved down the side of her body. When he reached her waist he pulled her – she wouldn't have thought it possible – even more tightly against him. She responded with a tiny moan and ran her palm down his back. He inhaled audibly and shivered under her touch, then leaned forward. Hot lips found the base of her throat and slowly began to work their way up the slender column.

Tory was shaking uncontrollably, unable to believe what was happening. She knew who he was, she knew what he was, she'd tried to take him down…but she couldn't resist him.

* * *

Jonathan slowly worked his way up her throat, reveling in the feel of her soft skin and carefully avoiding the bruises he'd inflicted. He felt a brief pang of guilt, but firmly pushed it away. He would make things right between them. 

Her warm body against his was driving him wild, and the exploratory touches of her hands almost made him lose control entirely. He swallowed a moan and kissed her jaw line, then her cheek. She shook in his arms – or were his arms shaking? It didn't seem to matter.

Gently he turned his lips to her ear, whispering what he knew was true:

"You're mine, Tory. No one else's. All mine. Forever and ever."

He released his grip on her hair, closed his eyes, and bent to take her mouth with his.

And kept on bending, until he was collapsed on the floor, gasping in pain and clutching his groin, where just seconds ago a small, hard knee had made itself known.

His eyes were shut in agony, but he felt the breath of movement above him. Then Tory was whispering in his ear, her voice harsh with rage:

"I will _not _be _owned._"

The door opened and slammed shut, and he heard her footsteps pounding further and further away.

* * *

Jack slowly made his way back to the conference room, trying hard to ignore his various aches and pains. He unlocked the conference door and limped inside, his fingers feeling his nose and elbow, attempting to assess the damage. 

He could _not_ believe that this had happened _again._

The phone rang, and automatically Jack picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Jack," said the voice of the hostage negotiator. "Your hostages have been rescued."

"I'm aware of that," Jack said between gritted teeth.

"If you release the young woman, I may be able to cut you a deal."

The young woman? What was he talking about…wait a minute. There had been two of them. One had been Reisert…the other must have been Jon's Victoria.

And apparently, Victoria was still here.

"I don't think so," said Jack. Hope swelled inside him once more. "What are you going to do? Give me _two _lethal injections?"

"I might be able to swing it so your brother doesn't have to die. I'm sure he doesn't want that."

Jack laughed bitterly. "You've never met Jon, have you?"

"What?"

"Look, there will be no deal other than the one I've already outlined. I want a private helicopter on this roof and no police pursuit for twenty-four hours."

"Or what? You only have one hostage, Jack. You kill her, you have no leverage."

"Who said anything about killing such a lovely young woman?" breathed Jack into the phone as creepily as he could. "It would be quite the waste."

"Let me get this straight, Jack. Are you threatening to rape Miss Godwin?"

"Me? No. I don't do rape."

"Then what…"

"But Jon – well, he's not exactly stable, is he? And he likes this girl. A lot. Frankly, I'm not sure how much longer I can hold him off…from that, or other things…"

There was a long silence. They all knew what those other things were. "You'll get your copter," said the negotiator flatly, "when you release Godwin."

"Like hell. Land the copter on the roof, and as my brother and I climb in we'll shove the lovely Victoria into your eager arms. That's my last offer." Jack slammed the phone back into its cradle and took a deep breath.

"We have a hostage," he muttered, running a blood-streaked hand through his hair, "if we can _find _her." Hopefully Jon had managed to run her down.

This whole hostage situation was a very, very long shot. Unfortunately, it had been their only option. He still didn't think they were going to pull it off. Even if the police did actually obey their demands, there were very few places on the planet where the General couldn't find them. They were dead, all right. But at least they'd go down swinging.

He wondered, briefly, if Jon would actually rape her. It was possible…but he didn't think so. Jon didn't flinch from violence, but he definitely preferred subtlety – actual brutality was his last resort. No, he was relatively sure that Tory was safe with his brother.

Humming under his breath, his mind on the job, he opened the conference room door. And froze.

"Hello, Jack, my boy. You look like hell. Been playing with Reisert again?"

Jack didn't reply. He barely even registered the words. His attention was focused on the gun pointed directly between his eyes.

* * *

Jonathan limped back up the stairs, holding his mask in one hand and clutching the stair rail with the other. Not that the support was helping much. God, he hurt. 

Over and over, Victoria's words replayed themselves in his head. I will not be owned. I will not be owned. And then her footsteps, pounding down the corridor. Away from him.

And he'd been so sure that she was his. Jonathan chuckled bitterly, almost hysterically. He was a goddamn fool.

At last he reached the fourth floor and leaned against the door, bracing himself for the encounter with his brother. Jack was never going to let him forget this. He wondered if the hostages had escaped, and if Jack had killed one of them by now. He wondered where Victoria was now. Mostly, he wondered if the three of them even had a remote possibility of making it out of here unscathed.

Jonathan took a deep breath and straightened up off the door. Feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to get him anywhere.

He felt a wave of gratitude for Jack. If his brother hadn't been here, he probably would have fallen apart - again. But just knowing that his twin was mere yards away kept him frombreaking down.

He and Jack were close for a reason, and that reason was that they were the only stability in each others' lives. Friends got killed, lovers left, names changed, but they always had each other. Only each other and no one else.

And that was all they needed.

Jonathan stepped through the staircase door and walked down the long passage to the conference room. As he came closer and closer, his steps slowed. Something was wrong. But what?

He stopped and listened. His brother was there – there was the sound of breathing, clearly audible from the open door. It was unusual for his twin not to call out a greeting, but then he might be on the phone, listening to the police. On the other hand, the breathing seemed unusually loud. But that could be because of his throat injury.

There was only one way to find out.

Jonathan stepped through the open door and walked right into a gun.

"Your hands even twitch, Jon, and I'll shoot your brother in front of your very eyes."

What little color remained in Jonathan's cheeks after a year indoors left entirely. His gaze shifted from the gun pointed at his head to the individual holding it.

He was a tall man with broad shoulders and a wide-set stance. Although his hair was salt-and-pepper and there were lines on his deeply tanned face, he nonetheless projected an air of deadly strength and vitality. A commanding presence, indeed.

Jonathan's eyes traveled down the man's other arm, which was pointing a gun at his brother. Jack was standing against the back wall, his arms spread and legs spread, palms flat on the surface behind him – a position guaranteed to prevent him reaching for a concealed weapon. Their eyes met, and despite Jack's stoic, stubborn expression his eyes were swamped in terror.

Victoria had probably meant to let the police in when she unlocked the doors, but she'd done a lot better than that.

She'd let in the General.

"You're going to kill him anyway," said Jonathan softly, in his most reasonable tone. "Why should I do as you say?"

"Because I know you two, Jon. I've known you both since you were seventeen years old. You'd each cut off your balls before you willingly let the other one suffer. That's why Jack's here in Arkham, and that's why you're going to do exactly as I say." All this was said with almost paternal good humor. The General's teeth flashed brightly against his brown skin.

"There are worse things than death," said Jonathan even more quietly.

"That's true. So I'll cut you a deal. You take your medicine out of your sleeves and go stand against the wall with your brother, and I'll kill you two nice and quick. Execution-style. Try anything, and I'll bring you down and tie you up so you can watch your brother take five or six long, long hours to die."

Decisions, decisions. Except that there really wasn't one. Slowly, his arms in plain sight, Jonathan rolled up his sleeves and undid the harnesses, placing them and their deadly contents on the table.

"Good work, Jon. Now, go stand by your brother."

What else could he do? Jonathan walked down the length of the conference room as slowly as he could, trying desperately to think. Nothing. He couldn't think of anything. There was no way out.

He stood beside Jack and took the same position. Their eyes met once more.

Jack's said, I'm sorry.

Jonathan's said, It will be okay.

There are worse things than death.

The General smiled. "Thank you, boys, for being so cooperative." He had a gun in each hand, one pointed at Jack, the other at Jon. "I sure am going to miss you."

"Bullshit," spat Jack, defiant to the end. "Just do it!"

"As you like it," said the General easily. And staggered backwards. One gun dropped to the floor with a clatter, the other one fired.

That fast Jonathan and Jack left their helpless positions against the wall and sprinted forward. Jack slid on his stomach across the floor and retrieved the fallen gun while Jonathan snatched up his hallucinogen.

The General was rolling and writhing on the floor, making choking sounds and clawing frantically at his neck. A stranger struggled with him. The other gun had been flung away, and Jon scooped it up with his free hand before turning back to the embattled pair.

He and Jack stood side by side as the General's face turned purple, then blue. His eyes rolled up into his head and his tongue sagged out of his mouth.

"We sure are going to miss you, General," drawled Jack. The General gave a final twitch and died.

A small, female figure crawled out from beneath the General's prone body. In one hand she held the shoelace that she'd used to throttle him. With unusual grace she rose to her feet and faced the brothers squarely.

"You two sure piss off a lot of people," Victoria told them.

* * *

Don't look at me that way! I know what it looks like, and I tell you it's _not _true. I know it looks like suddenly Tory is this great superheroine who can kick anybody's ass, anytime, anywhere. I know that's just as boring as her being the "sweet little angel" in the beginning. I know you're all readying your flame-throwers as I type. Don't fire! 

Please just trust me - there are extremely important, valid, and unique reasons why Tory was able to kill America's best assassin. I have offered hints in previous chapters and I will explain in detail in the future. It may be a while - the characterstake their sweet timefiguring it out- but I will explain. And no, it has nothing to do with a mysterious/haunted past. She's too young to have a past.

Furthermore, I assure you that this little incident isn't going to make Tory Certified Cool. She's still Tory, for heaven's sake. She still gets lost wherever she goes andmakes crazy jokesand cares far too much about people who really don't deserve it. And I plan to keep her that way.

So please, just roll with it. I promise, it's going to be good.


	15. Free to Fly

He couldn't believe it.

He could _not _believe it.

He absolutely, positively, _could not_ believe it.

"YES!" Jack shouted at the top of his lungs, pumping his fist in the air. "Yes! We did it! We fucking did it!" He collapsed against the table, laughing hysterically and pounding its surface with his free hand. "Oh, God, this is _great_."

"Is he okay?" the girl asked his brother.

"To tell you the truth…I'm not entirely sure."

Jack finally managed to get a grip on himself and straightened up, his ribs still shaking with laughter, his eyes sparkling. "Jon," he gasped, tossing the gun on the table and grabbing his brother by the shoulders. "Jon, we're alive!"

Jon gave him his infamous Of Course, You Retard look that he'd perfected when they were five years old. It did nothing to dampen Jack's good spirits.

"You," he said, spinning around and pointing at the girl. She was still standing by the General's corpse, perfectly cool and calm. "Victoria, right?"

"Tory."

"Right, Tor. Do you know what you've done?"

"I strangled a man," she said flatly. Almost carelessly. Jack stared at her for a second. Her eyes were both focused and blank at the same time, as if she was intent upon a single mental purpose and wore blinders to everything else. There was a cold determination to the gaze as well, a certain amount of ruthlessness, and a good dose of pure savagery. Jack recognized the look. He saw it regularly in the mirror.

"Jon, you didn't say she was one of us," he accused, still unable to wipe the grin off of his face. He couldn't believe it! They were alive! The General wasn't going to kill them!

Jon didn't seem half as elated, however. He, too, was staring at Victoria with the faintest of frown lines between his brows.

"Tory?" he asked quietly. "Are you okay?"

The girl shuddered and closed her eyes. "I don't know," she said. There was just the faintest hint of confusion within the precise words. "Who was he?" she asked, taking a deep breath.

The phone rang, and without even thinking about it Jack picked up.

"Hello, Arkham Asylum, how may I help you?" he reeled off, trying not to chuckle.

"Jack?" The negotiator sounded a trace uncertain at Jack's rapid change of mood. "Is Godwin there?"

"Sure she is. Tor!" Tory turned to him. "Say hi!"

"Hi," she said loudly, giving Jack a You're Deranged look.

"Hear that?" Jack asked cheerfully.

"Let me talk to her."

"Nope, sorry, she's a bit…occupied."

Indeed, Jon was at that moment saying, "Tory, come here." Jack angled the phone so that they'd catch that.

"Tell your brother to leave her alone." For all his worldly air the negotiator sounded more than a bit disturbed.

"No," Tory told Jon, her ringing tone clearly audible. And then, "Stop it!"

What was his brother doing? Jack turned around. Tory was up against the wall, her knees bent and her fists raised. Jon was standing a few feet away, holding out his empty hands pleadingly.

"Tory, please."

"I don't feel good," Tor said. Her voice trembled, almost broke.

"No, I wouldn't think so."

"Jack!" said the negotiator angrily. "Jack, stop this!"

"Look, we're not asking for a billion dollars or a heart for our son or six Victoria's Secret models parachuting down into the front yard. All we want is a helicopter and for you guys to delay pursuit for one day. After that, you can chase us all you want. But until then, my brother and I are very bored and very lonely."

"I thought you didn't do rape."

"Man's allowed to change his mind, isn't he?"

Just to make it perfect, Tory chose that moment to cry out in pain.

There was a very, very long pause.

"Hello? Mr. Reed, are you still there?" Jack asked sweetly.

"The chopper's on its way," said the negotiator. "The FBI will delay pursuit for one day. But you'd better release her."

"Oh, don't worry, we will. Sure will miss her, though." Jack hung up the phone, unable to believe their wild good fortune. The General was dead, they were getting a helicopter, and soon they'd be well on their way to freedom. Life was just peachy.

He turned back around, curious as to what his brother and the girl had been up to. Tory was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, taking in gulping breath after gulping breath. Jon kneeled two feet away, his face sharp with worry and his blue eyes intent.

"Tory, where does it hurt?"

"I don't know, I can't tell," she whispered. "It just hurts." She buried her face in her hands. "What's happening?"

"Could be shock," Jon said, answering both her question and Jack's stare.

"I guess I'd be shocked, too, if I'd just killed the top assassin in the Americas." Jack grinned at Tory and gave a mock bow. "My compliments, Tor. You'd better skedaddle, though, once we let you go."

"What?" asked Tory, raising her face to Jack. Jack was startled to see the look on her face – she seemed completely confused. "Why?"

"Tor, surely you've been in this business long enough…"

"She isn't in our business, Jack," Jon cut in bluntly.

Jack gave him an incredulous look. "What?" he asked unbelievingly.

"She's not an assassin."

"I'm an English major," declared Tor, rubbing at her face as if trying to wake herself up. "At Gotham U."

Jack's jaw dropped. "You're kidding me," he told his brother.

Jon shook his head.

"Wait a minute…you're telling me Tor here is a _civilian_?"

"What?" Tory mumbled. Jon didn't even bother to respond to Jack's query. His eyes were on Tory.

"Tory, are you okay?" Jon asked.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head rhythmically. "No, no, no, no…"

Jon reached out with one hand, but Tory shrank back.

"No! Please…just leave me alone…"

Jon gave an almost imperceptible sigh and rose to his feet. "We have to get her to a hospital."

"Excuse me?" asked Jack, eyebrows raised. He snapped his fingers in front of Jon's face. "Hello? Anybody home? The FBI just bent over backwards for us! We have a chopper and one day to fly it! Not that I really trust them to keep the second half of the deal, but I have some ideas…"

Jon grabbed Jack's snapping fingers in a painful grip. "You are not listening," he said coolly, his delicate features set with anger. "Something is wrong with Tory."

"I'll say. She likes you."

"No, she doesn't," said Jon hollowly, then shook his head as if to dispel his thoughts. "The point is, she may die if we keep her here."

"We're not keeping her here. Weren't you listening? I told the FBI we'd release Tor as we climbed into the copter."

Jon frowned. "What about the other hostages?"

"What about the other…oh, you weren't there." Jack scowled. "Leese rescued them."

"Leese? You mean, Lisa _Reisert_?"

"Don't do it," Jack warned him, but Jon's mouth was already widening into a wicked grin.

"Did she do that to your nose, too?"

"Shut up," said Jack savagely, gently touching his nose. He'd almost forgotten about it.

"Don't touch it. You'll just make it worse."

Jack nodded, relieved that Jon had switched from being an annoying brother to being an overprotective doctor. "My arm's hurt, too," he admitted.

"I'll take a look when we get out of here…you said we'd release Tory when the helicopter arrived?"

"No," said Jack. "I said that's what the deal was."

Jack watched his brother's eyes harden. "_What_?" asked Jon in his most deadly tone.

"Don't give me that," Jack warned him. "It's for her own good."

"No, it's not. Jack, she _needs_ to get to a hospital!"

"No, she _needs_ to stay with us. For our protection and for hers."

Jon, looking more pissed off than Jack had seen him in years, started to say something. Then he seemed to think. "What do you mean, for hers?" he asked.

"Jon, this kid didn't just kill some measly two-bit assassin. She killed the _General_. She killed the leader of the biggest organization of assassins in the world. Don't you think," said Jon, leaning forward and lowering his voice, "that's going to piss a few people off? Not to mention," he added, noting Jon's stunned look, "all the yahoos who are going to try and make a name for themselves by killing the girl who killed the General."

"Shit," said Jon. Jack watched with satisfaction as realization spread over his brother's face. "She's in as much trouble as we are."

"Yeah. Did you just say 'shit'?"

There was a moan behind them, and Jon and Jack both turned to look at Tory. She was lying on her side, a pool of blood slowly spreading from beneath her prone body.

"Shit!" hissed Jack, shock making his damaged throat tighten. Jon dove forward and slid across the floor on his knees, making it to the girl in record time.

"She's been shot," he said after a few seconds. "In the side." He rolled the unconscious kid over, his hands already stained with her blood. "Help me carry her to the nurse's office."

Jack held up a finger to shush him, listening carefully. He could hear helicopter blades.

"No time, Jon. We've got to go."

Jon glanced up from examining Tory. He started to protest, then sighed in resignation. "Okay. Just…grab the first aid kit from my office."

"_Your _office?"

"My _old _office. Go!"

"Okay." Jack almost took off running, then remembered at the last minute to grab the bag of weapons he had so carefully brought with him and had completely failed to use. He also took the time to slide his revolver into the back of his waistband. Normally he hated carrying a gun. But after running into Lisa and the General within five minutes of each other, it sure was starting to sound like a good idea.

* * *

**Twin Murderers Kidnap Coed, Escape Police**

Cont. from Page 1

Ten minutes after Mr. Reed complied with their demands, the two armed and dangerous felons stepped off the elevator and onto the roof. One carried the unconscious hostage, her side hastily bandaged. The other carried a loaded revolver and a large bag.

Searchlights –necessary in the gloom cast by an approaching thunderstorm –highlighted them immediately. The safeties of hundreds of guns clicked off as both sharpshooters on distant buildings and the five SWAT teams on the roof itself took aim at the brothers in crime.

The helicopter's blades chopped at the air with merciless precision. Jackson Rippner, the cruel criminal manager, opened the door of the cockpit and climbed inside, clearly familiar with the controls. The infamous Dr. Jonathan Crane, aka Scarecrow, stood nearby, cradling in his arms the young woman he'd injured so horrifically.

The hostage negotiator, Mr. Reed, stepped forward, flanked by two FBI agents. "Release your hostage," he shouted, his voice nearly lost in the whir of the chopper's blades, "and we'll let you go."

Crane did not reply, nor did he release his prisoner. Indeed, his arms only tightened around her helpless form.

"That was the deal! Giver her to us!" Mr. Reed tried again, uncertain as to whether the criminally insane Crane had understood his words.

"Let her go, Scarecrow," said a rough, powerful voice, and a familiar figure stepped forward out of the shadows – the notorious Batman, Gotham's much-debated vigilante against crime. Mr. Reed and the SWAT teams were visibly taken aback at his appearance, although evidence suggests that he had been lying in wait for the immoral pair.

Crane shrank away, clearly terrified by the awe-inspiring figure. "I can't!" he shouted back.

Rippner exited the cockpit and stood beside his brother. Although taken aback by the sudden appearance of the now-legendary Batman, he quickly recovered and pressed his revolver against young Victoria's temple. "Come closer and she's dead," he called over the sudden rumble of thunder. The Dark Knight halted, unwilling to risk the innocent girl's life.

When it became clear that Rippner and Crane had no intention of keeping their oath and releasing their much-abused prisoner, the SWAT teams began to fire. Somehow the brothers evaded their deadly bullets, entered the helicopter, and lifted off. The police watched in horror as two of the most deadly men in America escaped their grasp, an innocent young woman in their murderous clutches. When they turned to confront Batman, they found that he, too, had vanished.

Citizens of Gotham can only hope that Ms. Victoria Godwin will be recovered alive and unharmed, and that her persecutors will receive justice.

* * *

"Jon?" asked Jack through the headsets they wore as the rotating blades of the helicopter flew them farther and farther away from Gotham.

"Yes?" Jonathan answered from the back seat, gently laying Victoria's head in his lap. She shivered, only half-awake.

"Was that him?"

"Was what him?"

"The guy in the cape. Was that Batman?"

"Yes," said Jonathan quietly, silently reliving his moment of pure terror when his nemesis had demanded Victoria's release. "That was him."

"Oh." Jack was quiet for a second. Then, "You're scared of him, aren't you?"

"Do we have to talk about this?"

"No. Jon?"

"_Yes_, Jack?"

"He scared me, too."

Victoria whimpered softly, distracting Jonathan from his brother's confession. Her body shook, and Jonathan felt the warm wetness of tears on his legs.

He pulled her up to a half-way sitting position and let her lean against him. To his great surprise, she wrapped her arms around his body and buried her face in his chest.

"What's wrong with me?" she whispered between near-silent sobs.

He stroked her hair, soothing her.

"Don't worry, Tory. Everything will be alright."


	16. Home Sweet Home

Here we enter Part 2 of the fic. In my best Series of Unfortunate Events style (it's a children's series of sorts…sort of for children, not sort of a series), you will encounter in this fic a large gun, a small man, some very bad Freud jokes, a significant shift in Jackson's view towards women, dripping bras, sharp objects, a significant shift in Jonathan's view towards women, a crow named Craw, Tory's little secret, and a lot of yummy snogging. Just to keep you interested!

_Snogging_. You know, the British word for – never mind. Just go check out my profile, I define it there.

Just out of curiosity, has anyone caught on to the name differences yet? You know, whenever it's from Crane's point of view it's "Jonathan," "Jack," and "Victoria." Whenever it's from Tory's point of view it's "Jon," "Jack," and "Tory." Whenever it's from Jack's point of view it's "Jon," "Jack," and then he thinks of her as "Tory" but calls her "Tor" out loud. Yeah? Anybody catch that? No? Maybe I should just give it up…

Okay enough with the credits, on with the show!

* * *

Wait, I lied, one last thing. 

I am begging each and every single one of you to please, please, _pretty _please with sugar on top - review! I love reviews. They make me happy. Even when they say, "It's awful," they still make me happy. And scientific studies have shown that happy authors type significantly faster than unhappy ones. So get your Good Deed of the Day out of the way and review!

* * *

Tory fell asleep in a helicopter and woke up in a car. 

"What?" she murmured. "Where are we going?"

"Ssh." A very, very familiar voice hushed her. "You've been asleep for a very long time."

"Like, how long?" Tory muttered sleepily. Her head was on a pillow and her body was pressed against the back of the seat. Judging by the gentle hand on her shoulder, the pillow was in a certain somebody's lap. Tory tried to decide how she felt about that and gave up. Her head hurt way too much for deep thoughts.

"Like, twelve hours," Jon replied, giving a credible impression of a Valley Girl on the word "like." Teasing her.

She considered elbowing him, decided she couldn't reach, and settled for pinching his calf.

"Ouch. That hurt." Whatever he said, he didn't sound in pain in the least.

"Liar." She rolled over onto her back and looked up at him from her pillow. He looked down and smiled a little, looking oddly content.

Of course he's content, thought Tory. He's kidnapped me and I'm just lying here with my head in his lap. Or had he kidnapped her? She had dim memories of there being another reason.

"Why am I here?" she asked, noting the slightly more than five o'clock shadow on his jaw. For the first time, she wondered how he'd managed to stay so clean-shaven in Arkham. Surely they wouldn't have trusted him with a razor? Tory amused herself so much with the mental image of Jon waxing his face that she almost missed his reply.

"To protect you. Why are you laughing?"

"It's nothing," she giggled. "And you aren't explaining." Then, suddenly, she became very aware that she'd been asleep for twelve hours, in a way that took precedence even over the most interesting and pertinent of explanations. "Um, okay, I'm going to be blunt here: I really, really, really, _really _need to…"

"We'll be there in just a minute," she heard from the front seat. It's was Jon's voice – a little rougher around the edges, probably due to having a pen shoved in his vocal cords, but still nearly the same. Except, of course, that this wasn't Jon. It was Jack. "Think you can wait that long?"

"Maybe," said Tory. She wasn't joking. Jon, much to his credit, did not attempt to shove her to the far corner of the backseat.

Jack was right – but it still felt like an eternity. Finally Tory felt the crunch of gravel beneath the wheels, and the car slowly slid to a stop. Tory bolted off of Jon's lap and reached for the door handle. Only to have the car slide forward several feet. She waited a second, then started to open the door. The car drove forward again.

"Jackson Rippner, you had better let me out of this car!"

"Why?"

"Jack," said Jon, his tone brooking no arguments.

"Sheesh, fine."

Tory didn't wait to listen to them argue. She flung open the door and hobbled up the driveway.

It was an adobe house, and thus completely alien to Tory, who had grown up with brick and wood. The walls were smooth and beige, but the door was a bright turquoise. It seemed to be a pretty big house, especially set as it was in the middle of nowhere. Tory glanced around. Yup, tumbleweeds and dirt. Some mountains in the background, but that was about it.

She didn't spend much time perusing the local scenery, however. She stumbled up the pathway and knocked on the bright door.

An older man opened it. He had dark skin and gray hair, the way the General had…Tory shoved that thought away. She'd deal with what she'd done later. Besides, the General hadn't been of Mexican descent, nor had he possessed a long, black, drooping mustache.

"Why, hello, _chica_," he said. His voice had a slight accent that Tory found pleasant, and his smile was kind. "What can I do for you?"

Tory took a deep breath. "HimynameisToryGodwincouldIpleaseuseyourbathroom?" she blurted out.

He stepped out of the way. "It's just down the right-hand hallway."

"Thank you," said Tory, saturating the words with as much gratitude as was possible for a two-syllable sentence. Then she sprinted.

She exited the bathroom a few minutes later, feeling infinitely better, and considered her next move. If she had been kidnapped, she should run away now. But she was beginning to wonder more and more if she really had been kidnapped. Wouldn't they have watched her more carefully? Besides, where was there to run to? She didn't even know what state this was. Or country, for that matter.

Tory shrugged away her troubles and followed the sound of voices to a sunny kitchen with a large oval table and a tiled floor. Seated on the table was Jack, next to a number of medical supplies. Jon was busy using them on his brother's face.

"Ow!"

"Stop being such a big baby."

"Easy for you to say, you're not the one getting an impromptu nose job."

Jon ignored him and continued to prod and poke. Tory leaned against the adobe arch that served as the doorway and studied them for a moment. It really was almost frightening how much they looked alike. She wondered briefly what she'd do when Jon was no longer distinguishable by his orange jumpsuit, but quickly dismissed the thought. She was pretty sure she'd always be able to tell them apart.

"Ow ow owwwww!"

"Look, do you need me to sedate you?"

"No, just do it!"

"I can't if you keep yanking your head away."

"Look, it's not my fault all my instincts are screaming to remove my face from the personal attentions of someone who's _clearly _a sadist. Owwwww!"

"I'm sorry, I'm a sadist, I can't help it."

"Like hell you can't!"

Tory chuckled under her breath at the twins' antics and heard an answering chuckle across the room. She stood on tiptoe and could see, hidden by Jack's body, a third person seated at the table – the owner of the house. He smiled at her and motioned for her to join them. She slipped into the kitchen and gingerly took a seat. Now that she was no longer distracted by the call of nature, the bullet wound in her side was making itself known. In fact, it was screaming for attention.

"Ouch," she muttered under her breath. The old man looked at her and nodded.

"The wound, _chica_? They told me you'd been shot."

"Yeah," said Tory, breathing shallowly.

"Hold on just a second, Tory," said Jon, his eyes fixed on his brother's nose. "Let me finish up the crybaby here and I'll examine you."

"Crybaby? Crybaby? I wasn't the one who _wailed_, in public, when the bus ran over my stuffed pony."

"Shut up, Jack," said Jon between gritted teeth. The tips of his ears were turning red, and he seemed to be making a determined effort not to look at Tory. Tory giggled, and Jack managed to turn his head enough to wink at her.

"When was that?" asked Tory with an evil grin.

"We were OWWWWW!"

"Done," said Jon. He carefully plastered an oddly-shaped bandage over his brother's nose. "She did a pretty good job smashing it, but I think it'll be just fine."

"You _think_?" Jack demanded, running his fingers over his nose.

"Stop touching it. And don't worry, Narcissus. You're going to look perfectly lovely."

Jack muttered a few things under his breath but slid off the table. Jon patted the spot he'd vacated. "Your turn, Tory."

She eased herself out of the chair and managed, by putting the weight mostly on her arms, to get her rear on the table without shifting her side too much. She could feel Jon watching her carefully.

"I got it," she reassured him, squirming into position. He didn't reply, just took her chin in his hand and looked carefully at her eyes. Tory felt a jolt of heat at the touch but didn't let it show on her face. She didn't know where they stood, and until she did, she wasn't going to make any sudden moves.

"Pupils normal," said Jon briskly, releasing her. "Okay, take off your shirt."

"_Excuuuuuuse_ me?" drawled Tory with a grin. "Jeez, Jon, couldn't you have waited until we were somewhere more private?" As soon as she said it Tory could have smacked herself. It was no more risqué than the banter they'd exchanged during their sessions, but after their…well, they'd never actually kissed, call it a'moment'…such teasing suddenly carried far more weight.

Jon looked at her sharply for a second, as if trying to read her mind, then smiled a little. "Sorry, Tory. I'm afraid I'm just a hopeless exhibitionist."

"I'll say," piped up Jack. Jon silenced him with a Look and turned back to Tory, who was already peeling off her blood-stained tank.

"Where's my jacket, by the way?"

"Don't worry, it's in the car. I know you love that rip-off." Tory gave Jon many, many kudos. He was examining the wound in her side with as much composure as if she were wrapped from head to toe in plate mail, instead of sitting there in her bra. Jack did not get very many kudos at all – he was frankly examining her from head to toe. She gave him a Look as well, hoping it would be as effective in stopping his looks as his voice, but apparently her Look didn't had the oomph Jon's did: he just grinned back impudently.

"Rip-off?" asked the old man, who also was studying Tory, although in a much more "I-hope-she'll-be-okay-way" than Jack.

"It's a cropped jacket," explained Tory, between winces and gasps of pain as Jon gently touched what almost – if Tory hadn't known that a bullet had made it – looked like a deep knife slash in her side. "Jon thinks that for the money I paid, I should have been able to get a full length one."

"Jon," said Jack, "knows nothing about style."

"I'd have to agree with you there."

"If you two are done criticizing my impeccable taste, would you kindly hand me that roll of bandages?"

Tory couldn't reach, so Jack moved around the table and handed it to his twin.

"Thank you."

"Ouch!" hissed Tory as he applied some sort of ointment. "That hurts."

"Consider it payback," said Jon darkly, his eyes flicking up to hers. Tory almost started to apologize for kneeing him in the groin, but didn't. He'd deserved it.

She'd said it once, and she'd say it a million times again if she had to: she would not be owned. She was not some prize possession to be cosseted and protected and controlled. That's what she'd heard in Jon's voice, and she hadn't liked it one bit.

Ugh. This would be _so _much easier if he wasn't so hot. And if she didn't enjoy their off-beat conversations so much. And if she didn't feel drawn to him on some deep, primal, unexplainable level…okay, it was definitely time to think about something else. Subject change, subject change!

"Hey, when are you guys going to do some explaining?" Tory asked.

"What explaining do we need to do?" Jack asked, leaning on the table with one hand. He, like his brother, needed a shave.

"Like where we are. How we got here. Who the General is. Why he was trying to kill you. And most importantly, what in the world I'm doing here."

Jack thought about it for a moment, pursing his lips slightly and cocking his head, then said, "Sorry, no."

Tory's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me?"

"You don't really need to know any of that."

"Jack…" said Jon quietly.

"What? It's for her own good. The less she knows…"

"The more annoying she will be until she knows everything. Trust me, you don't know Tory the way I do."

"Regardless of Tor's finer feelings, I still think it's much safer, for her and for us, if she just cooperates."

"And regardless what you think is best, I can pretty much guarantee that Tory here will _not _cooperate with _anything_ unless she knows the reasons why."

"Yes, she will."

"No, she won't."

"Yes, she will."

"No, she won't."

"Will you two please stop talking about me like I'm not here?" interrupted Tory in exasperation.

"No," they chorused. Tory tried to scowl at them both of them at once but failed.

"There, nicely bandaged," said Jon, straightening up from Tory's naked side. "You can put your shirt back on now."

"Aw," said Jack. This time the Look of Death and Doom that Tory shot at him must have worked a bit better, because he didn't add anything else.

"Very good," said their host from his comfortable seat. "You boys go to bed."

There were protests.

"No. You are exhausted. I will explain to the _chica_ what she needs to know."

More protests.

"_Now._"

"Night, Jack. Night, Jon," Tory called after their retreating backs.

"Morning, actually," corrected Jon, glancing over his shoulder and smiling at her, and then they were gone. Tory finished pulling her shirt back on – the blood stains were unpleasant, but at least they were dry now – and turned inquisitively to the old man.

"I'm sorry, I never caught your name," she told him, hopping down from the table.

He beamed. "My name is Jorge. Would you like some breakfast?"

Tory's stomach growled so loudly it reverberated around the kitchen. "Please," she said, blushing.

"Well, then. I will start the eggs and bacon, and you will start the toast and tea, and when you have eaten we will have a little talk. Okay, _chica_?"

"Sounds pretty darn terrific."


	17. Fight or Flight

Tory sipped gratefully at her tea, leaning back in her chair. Two empty plates were spread in front of her, only crumbs revealing that they had once boasted heaps of food.

"Better, _chica_?" asked Jorge, pouring himself a mug of tea as well.

"Mmmm-hmmm," murmured Tory. The sun was warm, her stomach was pleasantly but not overly full, she was drinking orange spice (her favorite)…all in all, life seemed just wonderful. Okay, the bullet wound still hurt like a, ahem, female dog, but she could deal.

Jorge seemed to read her thoughts. "You are very lucky, _chica_, that you were only nicked."

"I know it," said Tory. Memories of what she had done and everything that had happened since soared upward, but Tory pushed them down. She deserved this. She deserved to sit in comfort, talking with a nice grandpa kind of man and sipping her tea.

"You don't sound very disturbed," said Jorge. He drank from his mug.

"Should I be?" Tory didn't want to talk about this. But she knew she needed to. For heaven's sake, she'd been _demanding _to only an hour or so ago.

"Some people would be." Jorge put his mug down and peered at Tory with intent brown eyes. "But you – you are not?"

Tory wrapped her hands around the mug and stared into the dark liquid within. "I am," she said quietly, aiming at composure and finding it surprisingly easy to obtain. "I don't like the idea that I've killed a man. But he was trying to kill…" she paused. She could just say "Jon and Jack." Or, she could explain this properly, and finally say, out loud, how she felt about Jon. "My friend," she finally compromised, "and my friend's brother. So I don't feel morally guilty, if that's what you mean."

Jorge smiled a little too knowingly for Tory's taste. "I see. Jon is your friend?"

For anyone else, Tory would have said yes, and felt proud of herself. After all, it took guts to say, "Yes. This deranged murderer is indeed my friend." But Jorge seemed so kind and so genuinely interested that Tory found herself shaking her head. "No, he's not my friend," she admitted. "He's a lot more than that. But I'm not sure what." She put her mug on the table and propped her chin on one fist, gazing absently out one large window. The mountains were blue and dim in the distance, and briefly Tory was reminded of her native Wyoming.

"It's just," she continued, when Jorge did not break the silence, "he wants something from me I'm not sure I can give."

"And what is that, _chica_?"

Tory shifted her head on her hand and grinned at Jorge. "It's not my virginity, if that's what you mean. I'm afraid that's already been taken."

"If you do not mind, I would like to ask when."

"About a year ago, when I was eighteen." Tory shrugged and straightened up. "With my boyfriend. We started having sex two months into the relationship and four months later we broke up."

"Do you regret it?"

"Nope," said Tory, shaking her head. "I'm sorry things didn't work out between us, but I'm still happy with what we had, while we had it."

"A very practical view, _chica_."

"Really?" asked Tory, startled into laughter. "I'm afraid I don't think of myself as a very practical person."

"And why not?"

"Oh, let me count the ways," Tory said with a giggle, holding up one hand and counting off fingers. "One, I get lost wherever I go. Which is how I met Jon, by the way – I got lost in Arkham during a field trip. Two, I can't keep a room clean to save my life. Three, I care way too much about random people. I'm so freakin' softhearted you wouldn't even believe. Four…four…okay, hold on, I'm working on it…"

"And yet, _chica_," broke in Jon in his gentle yet insistent voice, "for all that you say you are disorganized and scatterbrained and softhearted, you have managed to kill the greatest assassin on this side of the world – and, in doing so, saved the life of the man you love."

Tory stared at him, startled at the note of pride that seemed to have crept into Jorge's voice. The man was downright beaming at her.

"You make it sound like a good thing," she said uneasily. She was feeling a sensation that she'd experienced before. It was as if she were sliding far, far away from everything she had ever known.

"It was not wrong, _chica_."

Tory decided to think about that later. Everything she'd been taught screamed _wrong_. But when she thought about it…maybe she'd actually done right. It wasn't as if the General had been an innocent man. And he'd been threatening Jon and Jack's lives. Perhaps she'd done what was best after all.

"No, _chica_, it was not wrong – but it was almost impossible." Jorge leaned forward. He was not smiling now. Yet Tory still did not feel threatened by him in the least. In fact, she'd been more intimidated by her fifteen-year old sister.

"How did you do it, _chica_? How did you kill the General?"

Against Tory's will, she felt the memory of those dreadful minutes flooded through her mind, blinding her to the sight of the sunny kitchen.

_Flash. _Her shoelace was in her hands, each end wound several times around her fingers.

_Flash. _She saw the gun in the General's hand and heard it fire.

_Flash. _She was listening to the General talking to the twins, saying that he was going to kill them.

_Flash. _She was on the floor and the General was on top of her. Her fingers were bruised…she kept pulling on the shoelace, listening to him gurgle. He wasn't fighting anymore. One breath, two breaths, three breaths…then the General went still.

Yet it was not the details of what she had done that bothered her. She could live with those.

It was how she had felt doing it…

Tory buried her face in her hands. She wanted to do a lot more than hide her face. She wanted to scrape at her skin until she scraped away the awful memory. She wanted to knock herself around until she was too punch-drunk and weary to remember. For the first time, she understood Jon's need for pain.

She'd killed a man, and not reluctantly. There was no going back. Her life would never again be the sweet and innocent journey it had been.

Even as she thought that, however, she felt herself harden and cool. No, life would never be as it once was. But that didn't mean it had to suck from now on. It was her life, and she was going to live it, and she wasn't going to let this stand in the way.

She lifted her head out of her hands and nodded to herself. Everything was going to be alright.

"I don't really want to talk about," she said, gratified to notice that her voice shook only slightly.

"Please, _chica_. It could be important."

"No," said Tory, shaking her head. "No, please, not yet. Soon, I promise. Just…not today."

Jorge sighed. "As you like, _chica_. You had some questions, I think?"

"_Yes,_" said Tory, reveling in his words for a blissful second. At last – she'd finally met someone she didn't have to fight for information! "I'd _really _like to know what I'm doing here. I think they took me as a hostage…but I think there was something else, too. Jack said something, I just can't remember what. I wasn't doing too well just then."

"No, I shouldn't think so, _chica." _It was almost exactly what Jon had said when she'd begun to fall apart. Jorge's big brown eyes looked at her, sweet and gentle and – yes, sad. Tory knew, although she couldn't say how, that Jorge was a very sad man.

He looked at her for a long time. Tory had the funniest feeling that he was trying to judge her, sum her up, decide who she was.

"Listen to me carefully, _chica_," he said at last. "I can only say it once. You are here for two reasons. The first is because these twins are very selfish, like all criminals. They know that as long as they have a hostage, they have at least a chance of escaping the police, should the police find them here."

"I sort of expected that."

"The other reason is more noble. They took you here for your protection, _chica_."

"Me? Why?"

"You killed the General, _chica_. A little civilian girl-child killed the General. The General was the best of the best, so that makes you even better than the best of the best. You, _chica_, are the top assassin in the Americas."

Tory just looked at him, stunned. "That can't be right," she said finally. "It can't just work like that. I mean, what happens when someone wants to work their way up? They kill the guy one level above them and then they get named, I don't know, Eagle Assassin instead of Trainee?"

Jorge laughed, flashing white teeth and shaking his head. "No, no, but it is a funny thought. We are not so organized as that. No, I only meant that, now that you have killed the General, people will think that you are a very great assassin. And because they think this they will come looking for you. Some will come looking to kill you, some to do business with you, others merely to meet you. It does not matter. They are all dangerous, because they see someone who does not exist: the woman who is better than the best of the best."

"Shit," whispered Tory. "That's…that's really not good." She would have paid a million dollars right now to be home. She would have given anything to wake up in her dorm room, tucked under her comfy duvet, listening to Native American flute music and the sound of her roommate rising for the day. She wanted that life back, and she wasn't going to get it.

"So what do I do?" asked Tory to herself. She didn't really expect an answer, but Jorge gave her one.

"You are safe here, _chica. _No one will find you here. But, as much as I will enjoy your company and that of the brothers, you cannot spend the rest of your life here." Despite herself, Tory grinned, and Jorge grinned back. "No, eventually you must venture into the world again, and you will have a choice."

"What choice?"

"The only choice there is, _chica_. Fight or flight."

"Great options," muttered Tory, looking at her hands. They were very stiff and sore. This whole thing still felt unreal, no matter how real the pain was. She felt as if she was discussing someone else's options, someone else's life.

"No, _chica, _they are not. Because if you choose to fly, you will forever be on the run. Even if it is known that you are not such a great assassin, there will still be those who wish to hunt you down, because they are loyal to the General. There world is small, _chica. _You cannot hide forever."

"But if I don't hide, I have to fight."

"Yes."

"I can't fight."

Jorge smiled a little, looking amused. "Are you so sure, _chica_?" He held up a hand as she started to speak. "As of now, no, you are not a fighter. But I think, with a little time and a little training, you could be very good."

"How good?" asked Tory despite herself.

"Never the best of the best, I'm afraid. But good enough to defend yourself and your loved ones? Yes, I have no doubt that you could accomplish that."

"Loved ones…you mean Jon and Jack? 'Cause frankly, my heart's all for Jon but my head is dead set against, and I'm not too keen on Jack right now."

Jorge chuckled at Tory's frank description of her romantic difficulties, and outright laughed at her offhand condemnation of Jack. "The head versus the heart, _chica_. That is how is how it has always been, and that is how it will always be. As for Jack, he is not always the best of men. And yet I think you two will get along."

The incredulous look Tory shot him set the old man chuckling again. "Give it time, _chica_, give it time," he told her, teeth flashing in merriment. "Besides, I did not only mean the brothers. I meant your own family as well."

As cliché as it was, Tory felt exactly as if an icy hand had just squeezed her heart. "My family?" she whispered.

"Perhaps, _chica_." Jorge was very serious now.

Decisions, decisions. Except that there really wasn't one.

"Fight," said Tory flatly, feeling her stomach drop at what the decision entailed. "I know I'm going to regret this later, but fight."

Jorge nodded sagely. "A wise choice, _chica_. Where would you like to start?"

For a moment, Tory was baffled. Then the answer was obvious. "Shooting, please."

"Again, a wise choice," said Jorge, getting up from the table. Tory followed suit. "I have some targets in my back yard. We will start there."

"Jorge…" said Tory quietly, just as he started to walk out of the kitchen.

"Yes, _chica_?"

"You said 'we.'"

Jorge looked puzzled. "Yes. I will teach you to shoot. Did you think that you were going to learn alone, _chica_?"

"I mean earlier. You said, 'We are not so organized.'" Jorge was silent, looking thoughtful. "Jorge...are you an assassin?"

"A long time ago, _chica_. A long time ago," he said quietly.

"Oh. Well, that explains a lot," said Tory with a curious sensation of relief. She'd felt safe around Jorge. Now, oddly enough, learning that he was a dangerous criminal made her feel even safer. At least it meant that he knew what he was talking about.

It was a strange sensation, feeling safe among criminals. Tory had a feeling it did not bode particularly well for her future.

She shrugged and followed Jorge out of the kitchen.


	18. Deal

Jack awoke with a start at the sound of gunfire.

His revolver was sitting on the nightstand beside him, and within three seconds it was in his hand: safety off, cocked, ready to fire. He rolled over to the side of the bed farthest from the entrance and crouched upon the floor, the gun steadied on top of the comforter, pointed directly at the first person to break down the locked door.

Which was nobody.

Five tense minutes later, he finally straightened up. Padding across the heated tile of his bedroom floor in bare feet, he put his ear to the door. Nothing.

Slowly, soundlessly he opened the door, his gun held upright by his ear. Back flat against the wall, he slipped down the corridor, ready to shoot anything that moved. Nothing moved. He took a left and made his way to the kitchen.

Then, suddenly, he heard voices.

"Now, try again," he heard Jorge say, and there was another obscenely loud gunshot.

"Very good, _chica_!"

"I think I'm getting the hang of this," Tory said. Jack relaxed and lowered his gun with a grimace. Caution forgotten, he walked across the kitchen to the bright turquoise door set next to the stove. There was a window in it, and he watched as Tory, dressed in her jeans and her bloodstained orange tank, took aim at the target.

_Bang!_

"Excellent!" Jorge told her enthusiastically, and despite himself Jack was mildly impressed. She'd hit the center. Which wasn't really worth a medal, given that she was only twenty feet away, the target was stationary, and nobody was shooting back. Still, if Jack was strictly honest with himself, he'd have to admit that she was probably already as good as he was.

There were several things Jack was known for in the criminal world. He was known for his thorough research. He was known for his accountability and almost anal precision when it came to the job. He was known for taking a healthy disinterest in the motives of his employers.

He was also known for being an absolutely lousy shot.

Of course, Jon was even worse than he was. As Jack thought of his twin, he turned away from the door and headed back to Jon's room. He wanted to check on his brother.

While he ambled back to their adjacent bedrooms Jack thought about Tory. He wasn't entirely sure how much he liked Jorge teaching her to shoot. On the one hand, if she really was Jon's girl, they could always use another gun. But Jon had told him about that little incident in the lady's room, and Tory's attitude had only confirmed her earlier actions. It looked more and more like Jon didn't have her under control at all, and if she wasn't, then she was a danger to them both. Who knew what petty details would turn her against them? All it would take was one little argument, one bad hair day, and Tory could very easily point that gun at her abductors/rescuers.

Still mulling over the problem he pushed open Jon's door – and froze.

Jon had kicked all the bedcovers off, which wasn't at all unusual. He'd always been a restless sleeper. But this was beyond restless.

"Jon," said Jack urgently, carefully placing his gun on his brother's nightstand table and leaning over his twin's prone, orange-clad form. "Jon, wake up!"

His brother only turned his head into the pillow. He was gasping for air, his whole body tensed to battle some nightmarish foe.

"Jon! Jon!" Jack shook his brother, and at last saw Jon open his eyes. Jack felt a rush of déjà vu. His brother's eyes were open and fixed upon him, but there was no recognition in them.

"Jon, it's me, Jack," said Jack, trying to keep the fear out of his tone.

He still wasn't really sure how sick his brother was. Throughout the entire job Jon had displayed admiral composure. Towards the end, when they'd gotten the car from Robert and started driving to Jorge's, he'd seemed a bit more nervous. But still, that was natural, considering the great danger they'd escaped and the long day. He'd thought his brother had almost completely recovered. He was only now beginning to wonder if he'd been wrong.

Then, to Jack's great relief (again), his brother's eyes focused upon him with the light of recognition.

"Hey," murmured Jon, his chest still heaving for air. "Sorry. Bad dream."

"I'll say," agreed Jack, letting out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding it. "Want to tell me about it?"

In childhood they'd enjoyed exchanging dreams. It had been part of their morning ritual, right up there with Rosie cooking them a hot breakfast and scolding them about last night's pillow fight. So Jack was surprised to see Jon shake his head, the gesture tousling his thick brown hair even further.

"No, thanks," said Jon, licking dry lips. "I don't really want to talk about it."

"Okay," said Jack, forbearing to mention that it was Jon who had always insisted that sharing nightmares kept them from reappearing. "Do you want me to stay?"

"Please," his brother whispered, his eyes closing, clearly exhausted. He shivered almost feverishly. "Please."

Jack sat on the edge of his bed until his brother had once more relapsed into his uneasy rest. Then, carefully, he rose and exited the room, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure that Jon was still asleep. He was, so Jack closed the door and hurried to the kitchen.

Jorge and Tory had reentered the kitchen, carrying with them several different guns. Jorge was talking about the different kinds when Jack interrupted.

"Sorry, Jorge. Can I have a word with Tor here?"

Jorge looked at him sharply, then nodded briskly. "I will be in the living room," he said. He seemed to be directing his words mainly at Tory.

" 'Kay," said Tory. He could tell that she was a trace apprehensive about the impending conversation, but she covered it up well with her direct gaze and welcoming smile. Jon had said that Tory was Kiss-and-Tell material, and Jack was beginning to think he was right. She was a good little actress.

"I need to talk with you about Jon," he said, pulling out one of the chairs with a screech and seating himself. Tory followed suit.

"What about him?" asked Tory. Jack studied her carefully. She was genuinely worried, he could tell. Good. Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe she was Jon's girl.

"He told me you were part of his therapy," said Jack, leaning back in his chair casually. "So you saw him pretty often, right?"

"Fairly regularly. At least once a week, sometimes more."

Jack didn't speak for a second. Sometimes just letting an uncomfortable silence roll out encouraged the target to speak. Which Tory did.

"Why are you asking? Is he okay?" He could tell that she was tensed to rise from her chair, and once again he approved. Maybe they could trust her.

Or maybe not. She wouldn't be owned, she'd said. Couldn't she see that she had no choice?

Either she'd hear and obey or she'd be killed. It was as simple as that. He refrained from explaining that to her now, though. It would be better coming from Jon.

Provided that Jon was okay.

"He's all right. He had a nightmare, though."

"Yeah, he gets those a lot," said Tory, her dark eyes full of sympathy. "Maybe we should take turns waking him up."

Jack bristled. "Thanks, but I've got it covered," he said shortly. "I just need to know…how bad was he before?"

Tory thought about it for a moment, resting her chin on her fist and drumming the fingers of her other hand on the table-top. "He's pretty good most of the time. He hallucinates, but he's very good about controlling the fear reaction. Most of the time he can tell what's real and what's not, and he can ignore the mirages. Sometimes he hurts himself to help," she added matter-of-factly. Jack nodded, feeling old, old anger rise up in him. Dammit, Jon had _promised_ him.

"But occasionally he's a lot worse. He had a panic attack when I was there – a pretty bad one."

Jack nodded. Jon had told him about this, too. "He strangled you, right?" Jack said, examining the bruises on her neck for the first time.

"Yep. Stupid me had to break into the cell to help him," she said with a derogatory chuckle.

"And you're not angry about that?" Jack asked. His tone was casual. The question was not.

Tory lifted her head from her hand and shook it, sending chestnut locks flying. "No. He was hallucinating very badly. He didn't recognize me until he'd almost killed me." She shook her head again, this time sadly. "You should have seen the look on his face," she said quietly, "when he realized that it was me."

"So he's usually relatively rational, but every once in a while he relapses," Jack summed up briskly. God, he hated discussing this with her. His brother's mental health was no business but theirs. Still, who else was he supposed to get information from? Hello, Dr. Warner, this is Jackson Rippner. Could you please fax me my brother's files? Thank you so much, doctor. Oh, and please don't turn us over to the police. We're only murderers.

"That's about right. I think we're going to need to watch him for a while, though."

"Oh? And what makes you say that?" Jack's tone was perfectly friendly, the way it had been throughout the entire conversation, but it nevertheless held a hint of warning.

"Well, I think he has these panic attacks after big events, and I'm sure yesterday qualifies," said Tory firmly. "Plus, he's in new surroundings, with new people…"

"I'm hardly new," Jack pointed out, starting to get a little pissed.

"You know what I mean. I really just think we and Jorge should take turns staying with him, especially during the night, just until we're sure…"

"_You _think?" said Jack, anger making the wheeze in his voice more obvious. He stood up leaned forward, his hands on the table, getting into Tory's face. "Listen, Tor, I don't think you quite understand," he drawled, his blue eyes glinting with anger, a tight smile on his face. "We are discussing _my _brother. All right? I, and I alone, will be making the decisions where he's concerned. That's an order. And you'd better get used to taking orders, sweetheart, because frankly, you need us a lot more than we need you."

Tory looked startled at first, but by the time Jack had finished his not-so-subtle threat she was standing up and had taken the same position as him, putting their faces within inches of each other. "And I don't think _you _understand," she spat back, dark eyes blazing. "I am not some _toy _for you and Jon to cart around, nor am I a little Damsel in Distress who needs your help. Yes, thank you for getting my ass out of Gotham, but considering that I saved your _lives_, I think we're about even! And as far as Jon is concerned…"

"You will stay _out _of that!" snarled Jack. "I don't care how much your little girly heart beats for him or how many tears you've boo-hooed, you don't know a damn thing about him. Furthermore, I trust you about as far as I can throw your pathetic little carcass. So just _stay _out of my _way._"

"You're not the hotshot you think you are!" Tory shouted. "Maybe I haven't known Jon all my life, but at least I'm not so damn proud as to think I can take care of him all by myself!"

"I can and I will!"

"No, you can't! And _he's _going to pay for it!"

"You impertinent little bitch!" growled Jack hoarsely, reaching out to grab her shirt. But Tory was too fast. She dodged back and her hand came up holding one of the guns that was lying on the table. Jack grabbed one of them, too.

They stared at each over the table, arms extended, revolvers aimed between each other's eyes. Ready to fire.

A shot rang out.

For one second crystalline blue eyes and dark brown ones simultaneously opened wide in horror. Then they both realized that neither of them had pulled the trigger.

"Jon," said Jack hoarsely. He tossed his gun down and sprinted away, aware of Tory right on his heels. As they sped past the living room Jorge stepped out.

"What is it?" he shouted, but neither Jack nor Tory took the time to answer.

At last reaching his brother's door, Jack flung it open, the sunlight in the hallway shedding a rectangle of brightness amid the dark room.

Which appeared completely empty.

"Jon?" whispered Jack raggedly.

There was a small sound from the corner, and Jack's eyes finally adjusted to the dark enough to see the trembling figure crouched there.

"Jon," he said soothingly, slowly walking into the room. One step. Two steps. "Jon, it's me, Jack."

His brother wasn't looking at him. He was staring at the other side of the room, where the closet door was.

"Stay away from me," Jon whispered, pointing the gun in his hand at the opposite wall. "Stay away."

"Jon," Jack tried again, coming closer. Then he froze, hands automatically rising, as Jon pointed the gun directly at his torso.

"Stay away!" he screamed.

"Jon," Jack heard Tory behind him. Before he could stop her, Tory was standing beside him. "Jon, it's me, Victoria. I'm not going to hurt you."

"That's what they all say," said Jon with a hysterical laugh that turned into a sob. "That's what they always say," he whispered, blue eyes wide and haunted. Jack could see bleeding scratches upon his brother's face once more.

"Not me, Jon. Do you remember? You said you'd never hurt me. And so I promise never to hurt you," Tory said softly. She knelt on the ground, hands extended. Jack had a flashback to yesterday, when Jon had used the same non-threatening body language with a hysterical Tory. He had a glimpse of an idea, a vague thought concerning this exchange of comfort, but it vanished in the pressure of the situation before him. Slowly Jack knelt beside the girl.

"It's me, Jon. Jack. Your brother. You know I'd never hurt you, either."

"No," whispered Jon. "No, you won't hurt me."

"But Jon," said Tory. Her voice was calm and loving, its tone simple yet not condescending. "That gun you're holding scares me. Can you please put it away?"

"I need it," mumbled Jon, glancing fearfully across the room. His voice sank to the lowest of whispers. "It's the Batman. He's here."

"I'm here too, Jon," said Jack. "I'll protect you. I won't let him hurt you."

Jon's confused eyes searched his brother's face, then looked at Tory. "It scares you, Tory?" he asked gently.

"Yes, Jon. Please, put it down."

"Okay." And he laid it on the carpet beside him. "Okay."

Jack let out an enormous breath, and he heard Tory do the same. "Come on, Jon," said Jack, rising to his feet. "Let's get you to bed."

"The Batman…"

"I will stay with you, Jon," said Jorge from the doorway. Both Jack and Tory jumped a little – they hadn't known he was there. "I will make sure he doesn't get you."

Jon took a deep breath and nodded. "All right, Jorge. I trust you." He slowly staggered to his feet and walked towards his bed.

Jorge gently pushed past Jack and Tory, glancing back over his shoulder at them. "I will watch him. You two get some rest."

"Are you sure…" Jack and Tory asked simultaneously, glancing at each other at the unexpected chorus.

Jorge smiled. "Yes. And then Tory will watch, and then Jack. Are we agreed?"

"Do I have a choice?" asked Jack dryly, bitterness behind the ironic tone.

"No," said Jorge simply, beaming.

* * *

Jack and Tory sat next to each other on the back stoop, gazing at the distant mountains. 

"Penny for your thoughts," Tory said.

Jack took a deep, slightly wheezing breath. "I think we're lucky he shot at the wall," he said flatly, studying his hands.

"Yeah," said Tory, looking off into the distance.

"I can't believe I left my gun in there."

"How were you supposed to know? You'd never seen him have an attack."

Jack glared at her. "I don't need your sympathy."

"Like I don't need your condescension," Tory shot back.

There was more silence.

"You promised Jon you'd never hurt him," Jack said at last.

"I did."

"That includes turning him – or me – over to the police." He stared at her directly, watching her face.

She hesitated for a moment, then appeared to make a decision. Her eyes met his, her gaze solemn. "I always keep my promises," she said.

"What a coincidence. So do I." Jack shifted to face her. "Look. You promise not to turn us over to the police. I promise we won't kill you."

"Or make me do anything I don't want to?"

Jack frowned. "I don't think we need to go that far."

"No, we do." Tory had also shifted so that they were facing each other. "I promise not to turn you over to anyone, including the General's old followers, the police, or anyone else who wants to hurt you. You promise not to kill me or force me to do anything I don't feel comfortable with, including being your hostage. Deal?" She extended one small hand.

Jack struggled inwardly. He was granting her way, way too much. What if there was something important she _had _to do in order to save all their lives? What if she suddenly got squeamish and wouldn't shoot someone who was attacking them? A million other scenarios ran through his head, but they were all supplanted by one image: the memory of Tory kneeling beside him, helping him persuade his brother to drop the gun.

He wasn't sure he liked her. And he definitely didn't trust her. But he needed her help, and this was the only way he could get it.

"Deal," he said, and shook her hand.

They settled back into the strangely comfortable silence. Abruptly Tory broke it.

"So," she said, turning her head to look at him. He watched her suspiciously. There was a definite twinkle in those long-lashed eyes. "Explain to me more about this Kiss-and-Tell business."


	19. The Truth About Tory

Kudos to anyone who can name the barre exercises!

* * *

Jonathan Crane didn't want to open his eyes. He was warm, he was comfortable, he was safe. He'd finally gotten some decent sleep. No nightmares, no hallucinations, nothing. He was happier than he ever remembered being.

He also really, really needed to use the restroom.

Reluctantly Jonathan opened his eyes. The room was bathed in dim twilight, as always. It was impossible to tell what time it was. Jonathan turned his head and saw his brother asleep in a chair just by his bed. It didn't surprise him. Every time he'd woken up for the past – what had it been? Two days, three days? - someone had been sitting in that chair.

Carefully Jonathan eased out of bed, trying not to wake his brother. He found, somewhat to his surprise, that he was wearing soft black sweatpants and a white T-shirt, very similar to his normal sleeping attire. Jorge must have gotten them for him. Jorge or Jack must have put them on, as well, because he had no memory of that. His attention had undoubtedly been otherwise occupied.

Once standing Jonathan glanced suspiciously around the room. Nothing. No hallucinations whatsoever. He gave a shuddering sigh of relief. He didn't expect it to last, but the reprieve was nice.

Jonathan slipped out of his room and padded to the bathroom. Judging by the weak, pale, almost white sunlight in the hallway, it was very early morning. Too early for him normally – Jonathan was an extreme late owl – but his biological clock was confused by the odd hours he had recently led, and he felt wide awake.

Finished in the bathroom, he stood in the hallway and contemplated his next move. On the one hand, he was tired of his room and not at all sleepy. On the other, he would worry Jack if he wasn't back soon. He had just started back to his room when he heard a faint noise in the kitchen.

Curious, Jonathan walked down the corridor, took a left, and entered the spacious kitchen. To his surprise he saw Victoria standing there, her back to him. She was fully dressed in denim shorts and a white tank – undoubtedly also bought by Jorge – and was behaving very curiously. For a second he didn't understand what she was doing. Then he did and watched intently.

Her left hand was on the counter top, her right was gracefully extended to her side. She brushed her right legin front of her,toe pointed against the floor, foot delicately turned outward so that the inside faced forward. Then she moved her foot slowly around herself in a circle, ending with her leg extended backward behind her, and brushed her foot forward once more. She did this three times. On the third time she ended with her heels touching, toes turned outward. Keeping her arm extended she bent down, back flat, until her head almost touched her feet. Only then did her back curve, and her arm curved with it, ending below her head. She held that position for a few moments, then straightened her back once more and slowly rose, arm still above her head. She paused when she was fully upright, then arched her upper back, inclining her head towards her lifted arm and looking directly at Jonathan.

For a second she looked startled. Then she smiled at him and turned her head to its original position. Straightening her back, she rose upon her toes and extended her arm to the side, lifting up her left arm from the counter as well. She balanced for a second, then quickly dropped back down to her heels and bent her knees. Only then did she turn around.

"Hey, Jon," she said quietly, smiling and placing her right hand on the countertop. "How are you?"

"Better," he said. He left his position near the doorway and leaned against the oval table, crossing his arms and studying her as she proceeded to repeat the motions he'd watched.

It was a curiously peaceful moment. The entire world seemed to be still and quiet and soothing. The light grew slightly warmer, slightly more golden, but that was the only sign that time had progressed. There were no ticking clocks, no alarms, no pressing crises. Just them.

Neither of them spoke until Victoria had once again balanced, come back down, and gracefully bent her knees.

"I didn't know you were a ballerina," Jonathan asked. His voice was soft – the early morning silence seemed to demand it.

"I'm not," said Victoria, relaxing against the countertop. "I mean, I am, but I'm not any good."

"You look pretty good to me."

Victoria just grinned. "Sorry, Jon, but I'm lousy and I know it. I just do it for fun."

"Fun?" he asked gently, knowing it was not the full truth.

Victoria hesitated, then answered, looking at him somewhat shyly from the corner of her dark eyes, "It keeps me together."

Jonathan cocked his head to one side, silently questioning.

"Everything is so different now. My life has completely fallen apart. I can't talk to my family or my friends, I'll never graduate from Gotham U, people may be hunting me down right now." All this was delivered in a pleasant, fluid monotone that told Jon she had thought about this frequently.

"But the ballet makes it better?" he asked.

"It's so precise. It's really not my favorite form of dance, you know. I much prefer jazz or modern – and I'm much better at that as well. But when I do my barre exercises…" Victoria trailed off, looking thoughtfully out the window. "Everything makes sense. Everything has its place. Everything is beautiful."

"And you're in control."

Victoria nodded, then suddenly laughed. The sound broke the morning stillness completely. "You are one tricky bastard, getting me to talk about my problems without me even noticing."

Jonathan spread his hands wide and attempted to look innocent. "Just doing my job." Then he broke his pretense and smirked openly, pleased with himself.

Victoria had told him she wouldn't be owned. They'd just see about that.

"Enough about me," said Victoria firmly. "How are you?"

"Better," repeated Jonathan. "I'm not hallucinating right now," he elaborated, then grimaced. "I have the distinct impression I've made something of a fool of myself."

"No, you didn't," said Victoria stoutly.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow disbelievingly but didn't press the point. "Exactly how long have I been, shall we say, less than functional?"

"About a week now."

Despite himself Jonathan was startled. "It didn't feel that long," he said.

Victoria was watching him carefully. "How much do you remember?" she asked.

"Most of it, I think. It's fuzzy and dream-like and terrifying, but most of it," Jonathan told her. Despite his best efforts his voice was more than a little bitter.

Victoria was just about to say something when suddenly they heard a panicked, "Jon! Jon, where are you!"

"In here, Jack!" Jonathan called back.

Seconds later his twin burst into the kitchen, dressed in boxers and a T-shirt.

As soon as he saw Jonathan he scowled. "Don't _do _that," he told his twin sharply.

"Sorry," said Jonathan meekly, rolling his eyes at Victoria. She chuckled.

That focused Jack's attention upon her. "Hey, where's my breakfast?"

"Make it yourself, yeh lazy bum," she told him, returning to her original position, back to them both. She began a new series of barre exercises. "I'm busy."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Bitch."

"Bastard."

"Feminazi."

"Male chauvinist pig."

Jonathan listened in amazement and with growing amusement at the exchange of insults, which – judging by their casual nature and the hidden smiles on both sides – had become routine.

"Well, _I'm _hungry," interrupted Jonathan plaintively. With that Victoria immediately abandoned her ballet and began opening cabinets.

"Oh, sure," said Jack, sounding completely disgusted. "You jump for him and don't even give me the time of day."

Victoria looked at the clock over the stove. "It's ten to six. Happy?"

"Brat," Jack said easily, moving alongside her in the kitchen, grabbing her head under his arm, and rubbing a fist in her spiky chestnut layers.

"AAAAHHH! NOOO! NOT THE HAIR!"

Jonathan bent over in silent laughter, hands clutching his shaking ribs. Even with his head down, he could sense that they had both turned to look at him. He straightened up, chuckling and shaking his head. "You two are a piece of work."

"Hey!" they chorused in various tones of anger and indignation, and that set Jonathan off again.

He couldn't believe it. Within a week the two people he cared most about had already become…well, perhaps friends wasn't the right word. Acquaintances didn't work either, nor did enemies. They were…siblings.

That was exactly it. Jack was being the bossy, annoying older brother. Victoria played the spunky, smart-mouthed little sister.

It was too perfect.

Jonathan laughed and watched as the tiles on the floor grew smaller, then larger, then small again. Abruptly all hilarity vanished.

He lifted his head, afraid to look…he'd been right. From a shadowy corner of the kitchen, where the wall met the ceiling, a familiar face glared down at him.

He felt a tickle on his hand and looked down. A giant tarantula was making its way up his hand. Its fangs sank into his flesh, and despite himself he gave a small cry and flung his hand away. The spider tenaciously remained, and his arm began to grow numb.

_Concentrate_, thought Jonathan desperately. He summoned up all the icy self-control that had dominated his psyche for so long. _Concentrate_. There was nothing on his hand, there was nothing on his hand, he wasn't really hurting, the poison wasn't spreading through his body with every heartbeat…

And then there really was nothing on his hand.

Jonathan let out a sigh of relief, and then remembered his audience. Glancing up quickly, he saw Jack and Victoria watching him carefully. Their lack of shock was a cold reminder that he had been behaving like this for a _week_. Jonathan swallowed his self-disgust and straightened up from the table.

"I think I'd better head back," he said quietly, not quite looking either of them in the eye, and started towards his bedroom.

"I'll bring you some breakfast later," Victoria called after him. Jonathan didn't answer. He grimaced when he heard Jack's footsteps behind him. As much as he loved his brother, right now he just wanted to be alone. He didn't bother to ask for privacy, however. Jack had altogether too much experience with his self-destructive side.

Jonathan settled for the next best thing. He feigned sleep and lay with his back to his brother, watching the bare walls curve strangely and thinking bitter thoughts.

* * *

To his great surprise, feigned sleep became real sleep, and hours later Jonathan woke to a delicious smell.

"Hungry?" asked his favorite female voice.

Jonathan turned over to see Victoria perched on the side of his bed, a tray in her lap.

"You have no idea," he said with one of his rare, genuine smiles. He straightened up, piling the pillows at his back for support. She handed him the tray and he dug right in, relishing the taste of the enormous heap of pancakes.

"I don't seem to remember eating much," Jonathan told her in between bites.

"You didn't, really. I think you had maybe the equivalent of three square meals last week. Not to mention how hard it was to get fluids down you. And get you into the bath," Victoria added with a grin.

"I presume you didn't help with that."

"Uh, no. Not so much. Why, did you want me to?"

"Not if it went the way I remember it."

"What, you mean with you trying to escape every five minutes and shrieking that the bath was full of blood?"

"Yes. That," said Jonathan shortly. It sounded funny now. It hadn't been then.

Victoria must have caught onto his subdued anger. "Jon, it's not a big deal."

Jonathan laughed shortly and pushed the empty tray away. He ran his hand through his uncombed hair and stared at her. She shrank back slightly from the look on his face.

"Not a big deal? Not a big _deal_? You haven't _been _here. You don't know what it's like, being wrapped in a straightjacket for a year solid, watching over and over again as your nemesis strikes the killing blow. In the asylum I used to direct, no less!" A separate, calmer part of himself registered that his voice had risen to a scream. He didn't care. "I used to _be _something, Tory! I used to be a genius! I used to have a job, and goals, and contacts! Patients _trembled _when they heard my name, do you understand?"

"I wouldn't call that a good thing," said Victoria, her tone noticeably cooler.

He was wrecking the relationship that he'd worked so hard to build, and he couldn't stop himself. And that made him hate himself even more.

"You've never _been _out there, Tory," Jonathan spat. "It's not some nice little fairyland full of nice people. The only thing that counts is power. How was I supposed to get mine, hmm? Beat people up?" Jonathan laughed bitterly. "I couldn't even protect myself. So I had to use my brains."

"You had money," pointed out Victoria, with more acumen than he would have given her credit for.

"No, I didn't. My _parents_," he sneered, "cut me off when I decided to be a psychiatrist. Father wanted a businessman and Mother wanted a doctor, and neither of them were going to pay for anything else. Until – " Jonathan choked off the words he had almost said. That was a family secret. No one else knew, and no one else was going to.

Well, no one else would know if Jack would stop _bragging _about it.

Jonathan pulled his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, resting his head on his knees. Good God, all he wanted to do right now was die. Go to sleep and never wake up.

Dreamily he remembered what it had felt like, to sink into that peaceful blackness. He could have stayed there forever. But he'd been dragged back up through the depths, opening his eyes to see Jack's panicked, teary face above him.

If only Jack hadn't come home early…

"Jon," he heard Victoria say, and to his surprise he felt her hand on his shoulder. He flinched a little, then relaxed. Still he didn't look up.

Slowly he felt her small fingers slide down his arm until her palm rested against the back of his hand. He let it stay there for a second, then released his knees, raising his head and taking her hand in his.

To his great surprise, he saw no condemnation in her face. Only sympathy. No, not quite sympathy…empathy. He'd bet his degrees on it.

But how could she understand?

Jonathan's mind raced, and suddenly he knew the answer.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, squeezing her hand a little. "I didn't mean to shout at you like that."

"Apology accepted," said Victoria with a small, slightly shaky smile. "Besides, you have plenty to be upset about."

"So do you," he said, and tugged on her hand just a little, drawing her closer. She scooted towards him an inch or so, and then he wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her against him. She gasped in surprise, and his heart beat faster at the sound.

One arm around her waist, he gently brushed a stray lock of hair out of her exquisite face. Funny – she'd seemed merely pretty to him when he'd first met her. Now, he couldn't imagine a more attractive woman. "Tory," he breathed, watching her face. Her pupils were dilated in a mixture of both fear and arousal, and Jonathan struggled hard not to give way to his own intense desire. The physical part would come later. First, he needed to know her mind. When he knew that, there was nothing that he couldn't do with her.

"Tory," he whispered again. "Tell me about the General."

Victoria shivered under his hands and started to pull away.

"Please, Tory," Jonathan said, a carefully calculated pleading tone in his voice. "You need to talk about this."

She didn't come back, but she didn't pull away entirely, either.

"Tory, trust me. No matter how bad it sounds, I will understand."

He heard the quick inhalation she took and saw the flare of hope in her eyes, and he knew that he had guessed correctly.

Suddenly Victoriaflung her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shoulder, her body pressed tightly against his. Despite himself Jonathan could not restrain his shudder of pleasure, nor could he resist resting his cheek against her fragrant hair.

"I think I'm crazy," she whispered, the sound muffled by his T-shirt.

His fingers trailed up and down her back, drawing shivers from her.

"Why do you think that?" he murmured. His voice was thicker and huskier than usual.

"It was awful," she said. Her voice, too, sounded huskier. "Everything seemed so horribly clear, but fuzzy at the same time. Like, there are gaps. In my memory. I remember holding my shoelace, but I can't remember taking it out of my shoe. Or I remember hearing the gun fire, but it didn't hurt when the bullet hit me."

His hand on her back became more insistent, more caressing, and he felt her arms tighten around his waist. "Traumatic memories are often repressed," he whispered between faster and faster breaths. "It's perfectly normal."

"But that's not the bad part," Victoria said, her body convulsing in a sob. She pulled away slightly and lifted her head, looking him straight in the eye. Tears began to trickle down her face. "Jon, I _enjoyed_ it."

He was still for a moment, and then carefully brushed the tears away with his fingertips. "I know it's hard," he said gently, "but please, Tory, tell me what you mean."

She shuddered and closed her eyes. "I wanted to kill him," she finally whispered. "I wanted to strangle him, and beat him, and cut him and watch him bleed." Her voice began to rise. "And I wanted that blood all over my hands and all over my body and on my tongue, and I wanted to watch him die and laugh in his face while he took his last breaths and even when he was dead never stop beating him over and over until he was nothing but a bloody pulp, a bloody, dead, stinking smear…"

She was almost shouting by the time Jorge opened the door and walked in.

"Tory, is he awa…" the old man began to ask, and stopped when he saw the two on the bed. "Ah," he said tactfully. "I will be right back."

The door shut, leaving them in the security of twilight.

Jonathan cupped Victoria's face in his hands. "Tory," he told her. "It's okay. It was all right to feel that way. You had good reasons."

"I did?" she asked, her tone clearly disbelieving.

"You did," he said firmly, and before he could even think about it he leaned in to kiss her.

He was within millimeters of her lips when she turned her head away. He dropped his hands and took a deep breath in and out.

"I'll see you later," he said flatly.

"Jon…" she said pleadingly, but he lay back down and rolled over and pretended not to hear her.

But once again she surprised him. Repeating her earlier gesture, she laid one hand on his shoulder and leaned over him. Her lips brushed his cheek.

A year ago, he would have ignored it. After all, the best way to train anyone or anything was to reinforce positive behavior and ignore the negative. He'd learned that in school, and proved it numerous times over with his patients. If she couldn't kiss him on the mouth, she wouldn't kiss him at all.

But it had been a very long year, and he'd gotten very lonely. He'd never thought it possible, but the one thing he'd craved the most in that awful year had been affection. Physical affection, platonic or otherwise.

So when Victoria kissed him on the cheek he turned over, lifted himself onto his elbows and kissed her soft cheek in return.

* * *

Jorge was snoring in the chair beside him. That alone would have kept him awake, but mainly it was his tumultuous thoughts that forbade sleep.

At last he understood it – that deep attraction, the powerful desire, the insatiable need for a girl he barely knew. He understood why she'd always seemed to understand him. Why Jack had been convinced that she was one of them. He knew why he'd treated her differently from his other conquests, why he'd handled her so delicately from the start, why he wanted her intact, not broken.

It was very simple, really.

She was as crazy as he was.


	20. A Crow Named Craw

Honey, I'm hoooome. (Dodges pillows, quills, bottles of ink, laptops, mugs, and other assorted objects thrown at her by irate readers). Okay, okay! I'm sorry for not updating in ages. But I did have an extremely good reason. It's called Spring Break in London with No Computers Nearby. Despite not being able to work on this fic, I did manage to have a marvelous time and am now refreshed and ready to go.

Sort of. I do have to warn y'all that I am going to slow down the updates. Don't worry, I'll still get chappies up regularly, just not every day. I need to slow down a little. Not only was the pace absolutely killing me, but the story is becoming much more complex and I need more time to works out the kinks in the plot. No more plot holes! Kudos to those who noticed them, by the way...you were paying attention! (beams)

Jonathan: You are such a masochist.

Bex: _Excuse_ me?

Jonathan: People pay you these lovely compliments, but you only acknowledge the criticism.

Bex: I like criticism! How else am I supposed to get better?

Jon does have a point, though. Thank you all so much for your wonderful support! I really appreciate hearing that you like my story. 'Cause frankly, sometimes I get nervous about my ability to write such an emotionally involved fic.

Jackson: Bull.

Bex: Oh, no, not you too.

Jackson: Stop fishing for compliments. And by the way, you have completely stolen the idea of a dialogue with the characters from Eccentric Banshee.

Bex: Yeah, so?

Jackson: She could sue.

Bex: She's too nice to sue. And anyway, you basically gave me a disclaimer. Thanks, Jack!

So, yeah, back at the ranch...

Jonathan: You do realize how long these little chats with the readers are getting? People are beginning to get annoyed.

Bex: _Like I was saying_, back at the ranch...

Jackson: We're not at a ranch. And it's a terribly overused cliche, anyway. Can't you think of something more original?

Bex: Okay! That's it! Calisthenics for you _all morning_. And now, back to the story...

* * *

Tory wandered the halls of Arkham Asylum, looking for Jon. She was barefoot, and the cement was cold on her naked toes. Her feet seemed to make a curious wet, slapping noise as she walked. Tory glanced behind her and saw a line of bloody footprints behind her. She stopped and lifted one foot, balancing easily on the other, and examined it. Blood seemed to be welling up out of her skin, but she couldn't find a cut.

There was a noise behind her, and Tory turned to see Scarecrow, dressed in the orange jumpsuit and his burlap mask. "Tory," he whispered, and laughed mockingly. The sound echoed off the walls, turning into a thousand laughs, becoming so loud that Tory put her hands over her ears. "Tory, come and catch me!" Scarecrow shouted, and he began to run back the way she had just come.

Sighing at having to retrace her steps, Tory followed her own bloody footprints down a corridor. They turned into the conference room and Tory followed them. At last she saw where the blood had come from – the General's dead body was lying on the floor, and his blood was spreading in a thick, noxious pool. She must have stepped in it.

She was negotiating her way around the big man's corpse when he grabbed her ankle.

"You little bitch," he gasped, his purple tongue flopping, his eyes boring into hers. "You killed me."

"Damn straight," Tory told him, yanking her foot away. "Now stay dead."

She heard laughter behind her and turned to see Jon standing mere inches away, dressed once more in his black sweatpants and white T-shirt.

"Jon!" she cried out in relief. He smiled at her and knelt down, brushing his long fingers in the General's blood. Tory followed suit, feeling the cool liquid run down her hands. She looked down. She'd only dipped her fingers, but both her hands were dripping blood.

Guilty hands, she thought. She looked back up at Jon, wondering what to do.

He extended one finger and traced her lips, smearing her mouth in blood like obscene lipstick. She accepted his offer and licked at his finger, cleaning the blood off of his pure white hands. Then she looked down at her own, which were red to the elbow.

"We'll never get it all off," she told him worriedly.

"That's alright," Tory heard behind her, and she turned to see Jack, sitting at the conference table and talking into his cell phone. Jack glanced her way and grinned. "It's bound to come in handy."

Jack went back to his conversation and Tory faced Jon once more. Slowly, deliberately she placed one bloody palm on his white T-shirt, just above his heart. When she pulled away, it left a perfect handprint.

"You see, Tory?" Jon said, pointing at what she'd done. "This means you're mine."

"I'm not yours," she told him stubbornly, crossing her arms and getting blood all over her jeans jacket. "I'm not anybody's."

"You're mine, Tory," said Jon confidently. He wrapped his arms around her waist, and Tory stared deeply into the heavy-lidded, crystalline eyes. When he tried to kiss her, she put one bloody finger on his lips.

"Only," she told him, "if you'll be mine, too."

"Yes," he whispered against her finger, and Tory closed her eyes and leaned forward…

And woke up to the quiet beeps of her alarm clock.

She lay in the darkness for a moment, trying to slow down her thudding heart. Wow. Just wow. That had been a very, very weird dream.

Unfortunately, it had also felt very, very good.

Tory groaned and buried her face in her pillow. What was she going to do about Jon? She remembered the things she'd read in his profile. He was a sadist. A sociopath. A psychopath as well, or – if not quite that bad – certainly far too close for comfort. In other words, Jon wasn't somebody she should be interested in.

But she_ was_ interested, intensely so. As the dream had so kindly reminded her.

"I must be crazy," muttered Tory, and winced at her own word choice. All her doubts and fears and anxieties and awful memories threatened to overwhelm her in a rush, but Tory firmly pushed them down. She refused to think about her current situation. That was all there was to it. She'd driven herself nuts the first few days she'd been here, trying to rationalize what she'd done. Eventually she'd realized that she could rationalize all she wanted to, but that wouldn't change how she felt about it. So she'd stopped thinking about it. Period.

Maybe the same technique could work here, thought Tory. Maybe, if I just stop fretting over what's happening between Jon and me, it will just resolve itself. She decided to try.

With a yawn and a stretch she was out of bed. Dressed comfortably in the jean shorts and blue top Jorge had bought her – for an old man, he had pretty good taste – she sauntered barefoot to the kitchen, ready to do her normal barre exercises.

To her great surprise, Jack was sitting at the table, looking tired and grumpy and restlessly leafing through a yellow-backed novel.

"Hey, Jack," she said, slipping past him to take her spot at the counter. He made a non-committal noise of morning greeting, and Tory decided not to bother him further until he'd woken up a bit.

After stretching a little, Tory placed her left hand on the counter – her "barre" – and began her exercises.

"You're up early," she told Jack after a few minutes.

Her back was to him, and for a few seconds she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said, "Bad dreams."

"I hear you," Tory told him. "Believe me," she added under her breath, "I hear you."

She heard someone enter the kitchen and a grunt of welcome from Jack, and knew that Jon had arrived. The footsteps came up behind her.

For a second, Tory was nervous. Then she relaxed. Just do what comes naturally, she thought. You think too much.

Jon's arm wrapped around her waist in a quick hug. "Morning," he said into her ear.

"Morning yourself," Tory told him playfully, leaning into the embrace and giving his hand a quick squeeze. "Now sod off and let me finish these."

She felt his chest shake in a silent chuckle, and then he let her go and started going through the cabinets, fixing himself a bowl of cereal.

The companionable silence lasted until Tory was on her last exercise. Then Jorge entered, fully dressed and clearly ready for action.

"Eat up," he told them all. "Today we begin to train."

Jack groaned and Jorge shot him a stern look.

"Train for what?" asked Jon, scraping the last of his cereal from his bowl.

"For anything," Jorge told them.

"I knew we should've stayed with Tom," muttered Jack. Jorge gave him a friendly cuff upside the head.

"You in particular, Jack. You have been getting soft."

Tory giggled and received a Look of Imminent Suffering from Jack. She ignored him and pulled her legs together in a _sous-sous_ before gracefully relapsing into a final _demi-plie_.

She had a feeling today was going to get interesting.

* * *

Jack had a similar feeling, and was not at all happy to have it borne out.

"Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven," intoned Jorge sternly. Jon and Jack struggled to keep the push-ups in time with his count.

"Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty…" Jon collapsed. Jack stopped in the upright position, panting.

"Keep going," Jorge told him, and Jack managed a few more before dropping to the ground by his brother.

"Wuss," Jack taunted him between gasps.

"You didn't do that many more," Jon muttered, face buried in the scanty grass of Jorge's backyard.

There was a gunshot, temporarily deafening them both.

"How come Tor isn't doing these?" Jack demanded, pushing himself up to his knees.

"The poor _chica_ is still recovering from her wound. When you have been shot in the side, Jack, you may be excused."

Jack speculatively eyed the pile of guns on the ground in front of them. He snaked out one hand, only to have his wrist firmly grasped by Jon.

"Forget it," his twin told him bluntly. "If I'm not allowed to shoot myself, you're _definitely_ not allowed."

"Again," Jorge told them, ignoring their exchange. The brothers gave identical groans.

Another outrageously loud shot echoed through the air, followed by a shout.

"Oh, no!" Tory cried out.

Jon and Jack shared a single look of panic. Then they relaxed as they heard:

"Poor bird!"

* * *

A million years later – or so it felt – Jonathan stumbled after his brother into the house. He was in bad shape, all right. Of course, he did have a bit of an excuse. It was hard to do push-ups in a straightjacket.

The strenuous calisthenics had one excellent benefit, however. He'd been so preoccupied – and so in pain - he hadn't hallucinated all morning.

He wasn't sure it was worth it, though. Dear God. Push-ups, sit-ups, weights, even yoga. Then an hour each at the "firing range," with Jorge criticizing their every move. Jonathan hadn't known it was possible to pull the trigger wrong, but apparently it was.

"You are useless," Jorge had told them firmly. "Useless! The _chica_ just learned, and already she outpaces you."

"I think Jorge is in love with Tor," Jack had muttered to Jonathan as they traded places.

"He'd better not be," Jonathan had replied deliberately, taking aim.

He hadn't been able see his brother's face, but he'd _known _Jack was rolling his eyes. "For God's sake, Jon, I was joking."

Jonathan hadn't replied.

Now he collapsed in a kitchen chair and laid his head on his arms. There was a cardboard box in front of him, and he whimsically hoped that it was big enough to hide him from further abuse by Jorge.

Out of nowhere came a loud, _"Craw."_

Slowly, as if he was in an overly dramatic horror movie, Jonathan raised his head. Black eyes glared into his from only inches away. They were set in a black, feathery head with a long, black beak.

The beak opened wide.

"_Craw!"_

Jonathan yelped and flung himself backward, remembering too late that he was in a chair. There was a stupendous crash.

Scrambling out of the fallen chair, Jonathan backed away against the wall. The crow, which was sitting inside the box, cocked its head and studied him.

"_Craw!" _it said. Logically, Jonathan knew that animal's emotions were not as complex as humans, and even if they were, they wouldn't be manifested vocally.

Emotionally, he knew that damned crow was laughing at him.

It's just a hallucination, Jonathan told himself firmly. You're hallucinating. Concentrate…concentrate…

"Sorry, Jon," said an extremely guilty voice. Victoria entered the kitchen and picked up the cardboard box. "I forgot you were afraid of birds."

Oh, lovely. The blasted creature was real.

"Why is it here?" Jonathan asked irritably, still pressed against the wall. Then it clicked. "You shot it, didn't you?"

"By accident!" Victoria told him defensively, hugging the box to her chest. The crow's head popped over and looked once more at Jonathan. He struggled not to flinch.

"I hit his wing, but Jorge helped me look at it and he said the bone wasn't shattered, and that he could recover in a few weeks."

"A few _weeks_?"

"Look at it as an opportunity," Jack said with a smirk, putting down the glass he'd been busily draining. His hair damp with sweat, blue eyes twinkling, he grinned at his brother. "A golden opportunity for you to overcome your fear of birds."

"I don't _want _to overcome my fear of birds," muttered Jonathan, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "They're stupid, they're messy, they're ugly, they're absolutely infested with parasites…"

"I'll keep him in my room," Victoria told him.

Oh, that was exactly what he _did not_ want.

Victoria disappeared, carrying the crow to her room. He could hear her murmuring sweet nothings to the bird, chattering away in the nonsensical tone most people used on animals.

"Got a bit of a problem, don't you?" asked Jack sweetly.

"Shut up."

"All I'm saying is, things could get a bit difficult at night…"

"Shut _up_."

"Considering you're too scared to be in the same room as a scrawny little bird…"

"I am thirty seconds away from spattering your brains all over this kitchen."

Jack grinned, completely without shame. Jonathan glared at him for a minute, then took a deep breath and walked out of the kitchen. Down the left-hand hallway. Through Victoria's open door.

Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he took in the unkempt bed and the clothes thrown all over the floor. Hurricane Victoria had struck again.

"_Craw!"_

Victoria was setting up the box in one corner of the room. "Now, you behave yourself. No messing outside the box, no more scaring Jon..."

Jonathan felt this would be an appropriate time to clear his throat. Victoria whipped around, looking startled.

"Jon! What are you doing here?"

"As much as I hate to admit it," Jonathan told her, sighing in mock regret, "Jack is probably right." He gingerly approached the box, avoiding the heaps of crumpled blouses, and crouched beside Victoria. "This _is_ a good chance to work on my fear of birds."

"Cool," she told him, and handed him a cracker. He took it and stared at it, nonplussed.

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry."

She chuckled. "Not for you, silly. For the birdy here."

"Ah." Jonathan carefully grasped the very edge of the cracker and gingerly extended it forward to the large, grasping beak. Shrewd black eyes watched his every move.

Finally, just when Jonathan was prepared to give up the entire idea, the bird leaned forward and snagged the cracker out of his hand.

"Good!" said Victoria, beaming. For a second Jonathan felt irritated. For heaven's sake, he wasn't a three-year old. But one look at her sparkling eyes and broad grin convinced him that she hadn't meant it patronizingly. She was just happy.

"I'm trying to decide what to name him," she said, crossing her legs and sitting Indian style on the tile. "I'm thinking…Lenore."

"Lenore? As in Poe?"

"Yeah."

"That's a girl's name."

"It could be a girl," Victoria informed him. "You can't tell the sex of crows without blood testing."

"But you call it 'him.'"

"Well, _pardon _me for being scientifically inaccurate," she drawled.

"I'll forgive you," said Jonathan with a smile. "Just don't do it again."

"I'll do my absolute and utter best," Victoria told him solemnly.

"Good." It was only now that Jonathan realized they were unconsciously leaning towards one another – were, in fact, only inches away.

"What are we doing?" Victoria asked in a low, serious voice. Her dark brown eyes were uncertain.

"I don't know," murmured Jonathan in reply. He felt a thrill deep in his stomach and his heart beat faster. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to meet her lips with his and slip his tongue inside her mouth. Then pull her to the floor for a harder kiss, arms wrapped around one another, bodies pressed tight. Mingle his fingers with her hair. Slip his hand up her shirt. Kiss down the neck he had once kissed up. Hear her gasp with pleasure at his touch. Move to the bed…

With difficulty Jonathan discontinued the fantasy. "Staring into each other's eyes, I think," he added a bit flippantly, breaking the awkward silence.

Victoria suddenly grinned. "Corny," she said.

"Very," he agreed. They were even closer now, eyes locked, faces close.

Victoria suddenly broke the tension by laying her head on Jonathan's shoulder. Jonathan shivered slightly, both from the unexpected contact and from frustrated lust. Never mind. The time would come. She was uncertain and she was frightened, but with patience and diligence on his part those obstacles would be quickly overcome.

And then she would be his. This thought brought its usual rush of desire and possessiveness, but also, somewhat to his surprise, a sudden flood of tenderness.

Jonathan gently laid his head on hers, stroking her back with his left hand while leaning on his right. Victoria's fingers groped until they found his, and they intertwined his long, slender digits with her small ones.

"What _are _we doing?" Jonathan asked after a moment, curious as to her answer.

He was both disappointed and amused when she said simply, "Naming this bird."

"Hmm." They both studied the crow. The crow watched them back, bright eyes shining, head cocked curiously.

"How about something simple?" Jonathan said. "Something practical."

"Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

"Oh, I don't know. Black. Feathers. Beaky. Or Craw, I suppose."

This time they _both _jumped as the crow suddenly cawed. "_Craw!_"

Jonathan frowned. He raised his head from Victoria's and leaned forward, fear momentarily forgotten in sudden scientific curiosity. "Craw," he repeated firmly.

"_Craw!_"

"I think he likes it," said Victoria, also lifting her head.

"Interesting," Jonathan murmured. "Craw."

"_Craw!_"

"Maybe it means something," said Victoria. When Jonathan turned his head, one eyebrow raised questioningly, she shrugged. "Crows have a language, you know."

"How do you know so much about birds?"

"I used to volunteer at the Human Society. Every once in a while we'd get some wildlife, and squirrels and crows were the most common."

Jonathan smiled. It was too perfectly in character. Naturally, Victoria Godwin had volunteered at her local Humane Society. She was just the sort of person to be devoted to saving animals.

Which was going to make everything so much harder. She watched Craw and he watched her, taking in her sweet smile and sparkling eyes. So beautiful. So young. So innocent.

And beneath all that lay an inner drive that could not be denied and could not be contained.

He wondered if she'd be able to handle the knowledge of her condition. For a second, he thought no. Then he reconsidered. Victoria had proved to be remarkably tough-minded. For all her innate compassion, she was capable of doing what was necessary, with few regrets. Perhaps she would be able to endure this. She may even embrace it. He wouldn't know until he told her, and he had no intention of doing so now. He could still be wrong, after all. The symptoms were present, but they could be explained by other illnesses, or even by harmless variations within the normal condition.

He would simply have to wait and watch.

"_Craw!"_ Craw called. To Jonathan's ears, the sound had a slight and foreboding ring of "Nevermore."


	21. Wrestling for the Remote

Wow. I didn't update for four whole days! But to make up for it, I present to you the longest chapter yet. Also one of the funniest, at least in my opinion.

Just a warning: Jack, Jon, and Tory do extremely fluffy things in this chapter. You may perceive the twins to be acting slightly out of character. This is because they are brothers and therefore always behave like idiots around each other. Anybody who has siblings...you know what I mean. Furthermore, I feel justified in writing a chapter of fun stuff because a) the first half of the chappie is serious and b) Part Three of this fic is almost uniformly dark, bloody, angsty, and just plain messy. So enjoy Part Two while it lasts.

* * *

"Thank you for coming in so early," Lieutenant Miller told them. 

"Do you have news? Have you found our daughter?" the small, red-headed woman asked anxiously, clutching a purse so tightly her knuckles were white. The blonde man next to her wrapped his arm around her shoulders comfortingly.

Lisa Reisert sat slightly apart, watching the distraught couple. It gave her a slight pang to see them comforting each other that way – the way her own parents had before the divorce. Yet at the same time, she was glad that Tory would eventually come home to such a loving family.

Her own father had wanted to come to Gotham as well, but Lisa had firmly forbidden it. This was something she needed to do on her own. Besides, the city wasn't safe. In fact, it was just about the worst city she'd ever lived in. Before she'd come here, she'd wondered how someone as obviously corrupt as Jonathan Crane could have gotten away with his "favors" for the mob. She didn't wonder anymore.

She turned her gaze from Tory's parents to Lieutenant Miller. The wooden-faced, straight-laced agent had been her almost constant companion since the hostage situation at Arkham nearly four weeks ago. He'd asked Lisa to remain through the ongoing investigation, and she'd readily complied. So far, she didn't think she'd been a lot of help – all she could do was offer vague guesses as to Rippner's course of action. Still, she didn't mind sticking around. In fact, she would have stayed anyway, regardless of the FBI.

She wanted to be there when they took Jack down.

In the meantime, she'd made friends with the Godwins. They didn't blame her at all for leaving Tory, even though Lisa blamed herself. They'd simply welcomed her as the last person to speak with their daughter - had desperately clung to every word Tory had said before she ran down the hallway with Crane in pursuit. When the FBI had called them early this morning with news about Tory, they'd immediately requested that Lisa accompany them. Lisa had happily complied, almost as eager as they were for Tory's return.

"No, we haven't," Miller told them. "I called you here for another reason."

"What?" inquired Tory's father.

Miller took a deep breath, as if bracing himself. "The security video for Arkham has been released to the press."

The first thought that sprang to Lisa's mind was, "So?" From the looks on their faces, Mr. and Mrs. Godwin agreed.

"That footage contains evidence that we," another deep breath, "perhaps unwisely, did not share with you."

"Our daughter being raped," said Mr. Godwin flatly. His tone was dull, but underneath it lay hideous anger.

Miller took yet another deep breath. If he kept this up, he was going to hyperventilate. "Your daughter was never raped, Mr. Godwin."

Stunned silence was the answer to that shocker.

"We watched the video. Victoria was having a breakdown, and Crane was trying to calm her. Rippner merely took advantage of the conversation."

Relief flooded through Lisa. Tory hadn't been hurt. She hadn't suffered the hell Lisa had once gone through.

"And you didn't tell us?" asked Mrs. Godwin angrily, rising and swinging her purse like a weapon. "You let us think our daughter had been raped!"

From the look on Miller's face, this reaction was exactly what he'd needed all those deep breaths for.

"Please, Mrs. Godwin," he said, and for the first time Lisa noticed a pleading tone to his stoic, unemotional voice. "Sit down. There's more."

She sat down, glaring furiously at the agent. Lisa didn't blame her at all. She'd have been furious as well, if the FBI had let her think that her daughter had been sexually abused.

Miller seemed to be steeling himself for something. He glanced Lisa's way, and she raised her eyebrows inquiringly. What else was there?

"Do you remember the John Doe we found dead at the scene?"

"He was strangled with a thin cord – probably a shoelace," said Mr. Godwin with a frown. "That's all we were told."

"It's what they said on the news," added Mrs. Godwin, eyes still flashing with contained rage. "I suppose you lied about that, too?"

Miller winced almost imperceptibly. "No, we didn't. But we didn't reveal all the facts."

"Which are…" Mr. Godwin said through gritted teeth.

"We have identified the John Doe. He is the General, the leader of a loosely bound organization comprised of nearly all the assassins in the Americas."

Another silence.

"What does that mean?" Lisa broke in.

"We think that the General was trying to kill Rippner for failing to assassinate the Keefe family."

So, indirectly, Lisa thought, the General's death is my fault. Well, isn't that just too bad.

"It explains something that puzzled us previously." He nodded at Lisa, including her in the "us." "It would have been easier for Rippner to simply escape with Crane than to take hostages. We couldn't understand why he'd gone to so much trouble when there was a simpler solution. But if the General was waiting for them in Gotham, and Rippner knew this, then his reaction makes sense. He couldn't leave the Asylum without being killed, and he certainly couldn't stay there undiscovered for long. His only chance was to make a fast and completely untraceable getaway, which is what did in the helicopter."

"I still don't understand," broke in Mr. Godwin. "Surely it would have been easy to track the chopper? How did he manage to escape?"

Lisa answered for Miller – they'd discussed this before. "They were being tracked, of course. But the FBI couldn't pursue them as closely as they'd like, because they might have killed Tory. When the chopper landed in a field, it took the police ten minutes to arrive at the landing site. By the time they were there, the brothers and Tory were gone."

"Disappeared. Into thin air," added Miller grimly. "No car rental, no plane ride, not so much as a stolen bicycle. No one even remembered seeing them."

Mr. and Mrs. Godwin still looked disgruntled. Miller looked uncomfortable. Lisa sympathized with them both. It had not been a shining moment for the FBI.

"But how does our daughter come into this?" Mrs. Godwin asked. "Why are we here?"

Miller straightened up in his chair, squared his shoulders, looked straight at the wall, and delivered the words with the courage of one who was willing to die for his country.

"Neither of the brothers killed the General. Victoria did."

Lisa's jaw dropped and her eyes grew wide. She was completely floored. No one had even _hinted _about this. What did it mean? Her brain whirled rapidly and came to a startling conclusion. Tory was not an injured innocent. She may not even be a proper hostage. She was, to a certain degree, a co-conspirator.

Lisa's stomach sank. Had Tory fooled her all along? Was Tory as much a monster as Rippner and Crane? Had she always been on their side?

No. Lisa ran through their conversations that day and her general impression of Tory. No, Tory had been working towards the greater good. She'd believed that what she was doing was right. And she had been right – if Tory hadn't come up with the plan and distracted Crane, Lisa would never have been able to rescue the hostages.

"Our daughter killed someone?" whispered Mrs. Godwin.

"That can't be right," protested Mr. Godwin. "For Heaven's sake, she can't even kill _spiders_. She always takes them outside and lets them go!"

"I can show you the video," said Miller softly.

"No," Mrs. Godwin whispered, shaking her fiery head. "No, not now. Not yet. Soon, but…not yet."

"Our daughter isn't a murderer!" Mr. Godwin said angrily. "If she strangled him, it was in self-defense!" His voice broke down and Lisa watched tears trickle down his cheeks. Mrs. Godwin hugged him, her own body shaking with sobs.

Lisa remained silent. Surely Tory's own parents would know if she was a killer. Yet Lisa disagreed with them. In the brief time she'd known the girl, Lisa had sensed that they – despite all differences in age, dress, and occupation – were very much alike.

_She popped the cap off the pen and gripped it so tightly her knuckles turned white._

"_No," she told him. "That it would never happen again."_

_A queer expression flickered in his blue eyes at her unexpected comeback. It might have been pity, or it might have been respect – she couldn't tell._

_There was a melodic little beeping sound, and Jackson Rippner raised his eyes to see the "Seatbelts On" sign turn off._

_That was when she raised the pen and stabbed him in the throat._

Lisa jerked herself out of her memories, breathing slightly harder.

She wasn't a killer, either. Yet she'd tried to kill Jack, and she _had _killed Jack's little pet assassin. If she and Tory were as much alike as Lisa thought they were…then, yes. She could see Tory pulling the laces out of her sneaker and wrapping them around a man's throat. She could see Tory pulling them tight until the man died.

Yes, Tory could kill. And so could she.

The Godwins left, their arms wrapped around each other, supporting each other. Lisa rose to follow them.

"May I speak with you for a moment, Ms. Reisert?"

"Of course," said Lisa, sitting back down. The door closed and they were alone.

Miller leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. "Ms. Reisert, you have been an enormous help during this investigation."

Lisa shook her head, soft curls flying. "Not really, Lieutenant. I wish I could do more."

"You saved the hostages," insisted Miller. "And you were the one who brought down Rippner in the first place."

"Fat lot of good it did," said Lisa. It came out much more bitterly than she'd intended.

"It did a lot of good," said Miller firmly. "You are a life-saver, Ms. Reisert. You have consistently demonstrated incredible grace under pressure, as well as an amazing tenacity in pursuing your goals."

"Okay, why are you buttering me up?" asked Lisa with a slight laugh, watching the Lieutenant with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

Miller smiled. It was the first time she'd ever seen him do so. There was a certain splintery quality to it, as if his lips might shatter from the unexpected action. "Because, Ms. Reisert, I am about to offer you a job."

* * *

When she walked out of the police station an hour later, Lisa had to pinch herself to make sure she was still awake. No more working at the Lux. No more Miami. No more Dad. No more Cynthia. She wasn't part of that anymore. 

She was Agent Reisert.

Not that it was quite _that _easy. She would have to attend the Academy and undergo substantial training. But the FBI, for all its perceived rigidity, could be surprisingly flexible sometimes. They were willing to hire her now, on the assumption that she would attend their school after Rippner and Crane had been captured. In the meantime, she would get weapons training and would continue to assist in the investigation.

The sun was shining for the first time in her stay in Gotham. Lisa stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. The pigeons were cooing, the taxi horns sounded almost melodic, and Jack was going down. For the last time.

She wondered where Tory was now, and prayed that she wasn't suffering.

* * *

"Ow!" Tory yelled as her arms were yanked over her head. She stared up in terror at the man sitting astride her waist, pinning her to the floor. He laughed wickedly, blue eyes glinting with glee at her pain. 

"Time to teach you a little lesson," he breathed into her ear. Tory swallowed another yelp of pain as he wrenched the object out of her hands.

"We do _not _watch Invader Zim in this household!"

With that statement of doom Jack rolled off of Tory and plopped himself back on the couch. Smirking, he pointed the remote at the TV and changed the channel.

Tory remained on the ground for a moment, regaining her breath. Then she launched herself into the air and onto the couch.

"Aaah! Get off me, woman!"

"Give me the remote, you jerk!"

"I am not watching that stupid show!"

"It's not half as stupid as you are!"

They fell off the couch – _again. _The remote went flying and they both scrambled for it on all fours.

"Ha!" crowed Tory triumphantly, flinging herself bodily upon the precious object. Jack grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her off of it, then also flung himself bodily upon it. So Tory flung herself on him.

"_Oof._ Christ, Tor, what are you eating these days?"

Tory sat on his back. She started bouncing up and down. "Did you," bounce, "just," bounce, "call me," bounce, "FAT!"

"OWWWW! GET OFF!"

As Tory bounced, the remote's buttons got pressed by Jack's stomach and the channels changed. Suddenly, Tory heard her name.

"New evidence has come to light about Victoria Godwin, the hostage taken by the fugitive brothers Jackson Rippner and Jonathan Crane one month ago."

Tory bounced on Jack one last time and got off. She sat on the couch, watching the newswoman intently. Jack got up and sat next to her, taking the remote with him.

"Police recently released the security tape of Arkham Asylum. The tape shows that, contrary to popular belief, it was Godwin who murdered the dead man found at the scene. Furthermore, although Rippner insinuated that his brother raped Godwin, the footage reveals that Victoria was never sexually assaulted."

"So now everybody knows," said Tory dully.

"What? That you weren't raped?"

"Not that, although I still can't believe you told that to the police. I meant, now everybody knows I killed the General."

"Anyone with half a brain already knew," said Jack, leaning back and making himself comfortable. "They already publicly declared he was strangled with a shoelace."

"So?"

"So, if Jon and I had had the chance to kill him, you think we would have used a _shoelace_?"

"You might have."

"Yeah, right. We'd have gone for a gun or Jon's poison or, all else failing, used some martial arts. You're the only one who didn't have any of those weapons."

"True," said Tory, pulling her knees up to her chin and studied her sneakers. Jon and Jack had brought the shoelace with them when they'd escaped, and she'd threaded it back into her left shoe. She was still trying to make up her mind as to whether it was her Good Luck Shoe or the Shoe of Doom. "Well, I didn't then. I do now."

"Mmm," said Jack noncommittally. Then, "Don't get too cocky. You've got a lot to learn."

"I know. But I've got you and Jon to teach me." Tory picked at the couch's covering. "At least for a while."

Jack tore his attention away from the screen long enough to frown at her. "What do you mean?"

"Well, you're going to South America, aren't you?"

"That's the plan. As soon as the heat dies down." Jack nodded his head at the TV screen. "In another month we won't be news anymore. Sure, the police and the General's people will still be looking for us…"

"That's a scary thought."

"Get used to it. They're dangerous, all right. But you know what's more dangerous? The hick waitress at the greasy spoon who saw you on TV. But pretty soon we'll be an old story, people will forget our faces…"

"Face, really," said Tory with a smile.

"Faces. Yours, too."

Tory straightened up abruptly. "Wait. What are you talking about?"

Jack looked at her as if she was stupid. "You're coming with us."

"Oh, am I?" Tory flared. "Don't you think you should _ask_ me if I want to move to another _continent_?"

Jack sighed and laid his head on the back of the couch. In a bored voice he intoned, "Oh Mighty Mistress Victoria, would you be so kind as to accompany my brother and I to a beautiful and exotic continent, filled with friends and opportunities and notably empty of countries which extradite murderers back to this intolerant homeland of ours."

"Well, when you put it _that _way," said Tory, pretending to preen. She was, truthfully, a bit flattered that Jack had asked her to come. She'd expected Jon to, of course – but then, she and Jon had a very different relationship. A _very _different relationship. Not one that had progressed particularly far, though.

She didn't know what to do. She loved Jon. She couldn't deny that to herself anymore. She loved his intelligence, his subtle humor, his cool and collected air, his sudden smiles. And frankly, she lusted after him something terrible.

So why couldn't she do anything about it? Why couldn't she take that final step? They hadn't even properly kissed. Why was she holding back?

A delayed reaction to something Jack had said suddenly interrupted her thoughts."Friends? You have friends in South America?"

Jack shifted. He looked suddenly vaguely embarrassed. "One."

"Oh." Tory started to grin. "Is this a…_special _friend?"

One look at Jack's horrified face disabused that notion.

"Okay. Wrong. Sorry."

"Yeah, about as wrong as you could get. Unless you're Freud."

Tory blinked, then got it and giggled. "Let me get this straight. Your _mother_ is down there?"

"Not our mother. Our nanny. But it's basically the same thing, because she pretty much raised us."

Tory started to smile. Then she started to laugh.

"_What?_" asked Jack, sounding pissed.

"It's just…you're running home to your nanny?"

Jack glared at her. "Yes. Fine. We're running home to nanny. And you'd better be nice to her when you meet her."

"When am I ever not nice?"

Jack just gave her a Look. "Brat," he threw in for good measure.

"Not as big a brat as you, Mr. Park Avenue." Tory paused for a second. "Hey, that rhymes."

Jack glared at her, his hair falling into his eyes. Tory glared back.

Jack shrugged and looked away.

"Hey? Why are you giving up so fast?"

"You're Jon's girl. I'll cut you some slack."

"First of all, nothing is official yet." Jack gave her an Oh, Please look. "Second," continued Tory, ignoring the disbelieving expression on his face, "exactly how much slack are we talking about?"

Jack's eyes grew wary. "Uh, not much. Why?"

"Enough slack to give me the remote?"

"Put it this way, Tor," Jack told her, laying one arm along the back of the couch and snuggling further into its soft cushions. He carefully enunciated each word. "Over…my…dead….body. OW!"

"That can be arranged," said a nearly identical voice from behind them, and they both looked back. Jon stood by the back of the couch, still in his pajamas and holding a large pillow in one hand, with which he had just hit Jack on the head.

"What was that for?" Jack demanded, rubbing his head and mussing his hair.

"Payback. For moving my coffee."

FLASHBACK

Jon had suffered a very strange sleeping schedule during his breakdown, and consequently, for the first few days after his recovery, had gotten up exceedingly early each morning. Then his normal sleeping pattern had reasserted itself and it was all Jack, Tory, and Jorge could do to get him up before ten o'clock in the morning.

Tory had finished her barre exercises, eaten breakfast, and practiced at the home-made, outdoor shooting range by the time Jon stumbled into the kitchen. Eyes closed, hair tousled, he felt his way to a chair and collapsed into it, resting his head on his folded arms.

Without a word Tory poured a large mug of coffee and placed it by his left elbow. She knew better than to try to get a coherent sentence out of Jon before he'd had his morning caffeine. As she set it down he murmured something that might have been "Thank you," had it not been muffled by his arms. She squeezed his shoulder and went back to cleaning the kitchen up from everyone else's breakfast.

Just then, Jack walked into the kitchen. As soon as he saw his brother, an evil smirk crossed his face. Carefully, without making a sound, he picked up the mug and put it down on the far side of the table, out of reach.

Jon's left hand reached out and felt for where the mug usually was. The searching fingers found nothing, and Jon's hand paused in confusion.

"Other side," said Jack calmly, with perfect innocence.

Jon carefully tucked his left arm back under his head and reached with his right hand to the right. No coffee there, either.

"A little bit forward. A bit more. Now a bit to the right. No, too far, you went too far. Okay, warmer…warmer…nope, missed it. It's more in front of you. Closer to your head. No, not _that _close to your head. Jon, it's right there!"

"Jack, you are so mean!" Tory, who'd been watching the show, finally laughed. Going back to the table, she snatched the mug up and handed it to Jon. He briefly raised his head, eyes still closed, and pulled the coffee closer to him. Then he stuck one hand in his sweatpants' pocket and pulled out a straw. Plunking it in the coffee, he supported his head with both his hands and began to slurp the coffee through the straw.

"You're so weird," Jack told him.

The fingers of Jon's hand all curled into his palm until only the middle one was left standing.

END OF FLASHBACK

Jon whacked Jack again with the pillow.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!"

"Wimp," said Jon with a smile.

Jack grabbed a pillow off the couch and struck back. Within seconds it wasn't just a pillow fight. It was a pillow war.

Tory watched them for a few minutes, laughing hysterically. They were the best pillow fighters she'd ever seen. This wasn't just about standing there and whacking each other. Oh, no. They were everywhere: up on the couch, on the coffee table, dodging behind chairs and in general behaving like five-year olds.

Suddenly Tory had a delicious idea. Getting up from where she'd taken cover under the coffee table, she ran into the kitchen.

* * *

"Yes, they are here," Jorge said into the phone. "Yes, they are fine. Jack had his nose broken by _Senorita _Reisert, and Jon was ill for a time, but now they are both much better." He paused to listen. "Ah, yes, the _chica _is here. She is a good kid. One of us, I believe. Or perhaps like you. I do not yet know. But as it is, she and Jon are…well, perhaps I have said too much." Jorge had to take the phone away from his ear due to the sheer volume of the violent protests on the other end. "But yes, she is good enough for him. Too good, I think." Jorge listened again. "Yes, of course. I will arrange everything. They will never know. They will be taken completely by surprise." 

He heard a commotion. Phone still to his ear, he walked down the hall.

"They have not been so bad. They whine when I make them exercise and shoot, but otherwise they have been quite good. Except... ah." He stood in the open door of the living room and watched the ensuing chaos. "They are having a pillow fight. Yes, quite right, they are running around like five-year olds." Jorge sighed. "Sometimes, my friend, I think that the _chica_ and I are the only adults in this house."

He paused to listen, and while he was doing so he politely moved out of the way for Tory. She was, for some strange reason, carrying a bucket full of water.

"And the other times, my friend?"

He watched as Tory threw the bucket of water at the battling twins, completely soaking them. The twins immediately stopped. Slowly, they turned to Tory. Four menacing blue eyes glared at her small frame.

"Heh. Heh. Oops," said Tory, and she ran. Jorge flattened himself against one adobe wall as the girl fled down the hallway, the dripping twins in hot pursuit.

"The other times," Jorge said, shaking his head, "I _know_ that _I _am the only adult here."


	22. The Queen

Short chappie this time. But still very significant. So pay attention:)

For your information, a "murder" is the name for a group of crows. Isn't it just too ironic?

* * *

Technically, Craw was Tory's crow. After all, she'd shot him. But Craw had his own ideas about who he belonged to. Or, rather, who belonged to him.

"_Craw!"_

Right now, he was perched on his human's head. With swift motions of his beak he groomed his human's strange feathers, laying them neatly in place. His human held up a cracker, enticing Craw to climb onto his arm. Craw ignored him. He was quite comfortable where he was.

His human, and the other humans in his new murder, were all sitting outside. The other humans were ignoring Craw. At first, whenever Craw had climbed on his human's head, they'd made strange sounds quite unlike their normal language. Now they were just making gurgling noises to each other as usual.

Suddenly a noise caught Craw's attention. He stopped grooming his human and looked around, trying to discover the source. With a single flap of his wings he left his human's head and soared into the air, reveling in his regained flight.

There! A human. A stranger. Approaching the front of the house. His murder was in the back – they couldn't see him!

"_Craw!_" Craw screamed a warning, then dive-bombed the intruder. "_Craw!_"

The new human made yelping sounds like a dog and held his arms over his head. Craw flew away a short distance, then with whistling speed dive-bombed the intruder again.

"_CRAW!"_

His murder came running around the back of the house. Now they could all work together to drive the intruder away.

Or…not. The one that looked like his human flung himself in front of the intruder and waved his arms at Craw, shouting loudly. Craw, unwilling to harm a member of his murder, veered to one side. Cupping his wings against the air to brake, he landed gently on his human's head once more.

The intruder immediately began to make those strange howling noises Craw heard so often. Between these noises he said something in the normal human speech.

Unbeknownst to Craw, what he was saying was this:

"Christ, Jon! You used to run away from _pigeons_. Been mixing medications again?"

Craw squawked in a very undignified manner as his human rushed forward, disrupting the bird's perch. Only with many wing-flaps did he escape from falling like a new-hatched fledgling to the ground. Once he'd regained the air he circled the area before settling on the roof.

Perching comfortably, Craw watched in bewilderment as the two humans who looked alike flung themselves on the pale-haired intruder. At first, he thought they were going to kill him. Then he realized that this was the human way of greeting others. Like dogs sniffing each other's butts.

Apparently, the intruder was welcome in his murder. Craw shifted his feet and swallowed a disgruntled caw. All that work for nothing. Well, if they weren't going to appreciate his efforts, he'd just stay up here all day. That would teach them.

Then he saw the female human standing below the roof, holding out some bread.

Or…he could take the high road.

* * *

"I can't believe you're here," repeated Jonathan for the fourth time.

They were all seated around the kitchen table. The newcomer grinned, flashing slightly crooked teeth.

"How did you find us?" demanded Jack.

The platinum-haired, freckle-faced man modestly polished his fingernails on his T-shirt. "Oh, you know. A little wheeling, a little dealing, a little brilliance…"

"He called Jorge," Jonathan said dryly.

The stranger pouted. "Damn, Jon, why do you have to be so smart?" He glanced through pale eyelashes at Victoria, who was sitting next to Jonathan. "And where are your manners? Isn't anyone going to introduce me to this lovely young lady?"

"Victoria, this is Tim Greybanks," Jonathan said. "Tim, this is Victoria Godwin."

"Nice to meet you," said Victoria, extending her hand. Jonathan grabbed her wrist and she stared at him, perplexed.

"Never shake hands with Tim," he told her solemnly, secretly amused at her startled expression.

"Why not?" she asked, looking sideways at Tim.

"Because he'll slip the rings right off your fingers."

"Oh, come on," Tim protested. "You think I'd actually steal from a friend of yours?"

"Yes," Jonathan and Jack chorused.

"Untrusting," Tim declared, taking a swig from the bottle of beer in front of him. "That's what you are. Untrusting. Unwilling to have faith in your fellow man."

"Yeah, I think that…" Jack started.

"Pretty much sums us up," finished Jonathan.

Tim looked at Victoria. "Doesn't that drive you crazy?" he asked in a stage whisper.

Victoria smiled. "Truthfully, I've never heard them finish each other's sentences before."

"Oh, great," said Tim, looking disgusted. "You mean they do that just to piss me off?"

"Of course, what…"

"Did you expect?"

Tim looked pleadingly at Victoria. "Sweetheart, make them stop."

Victoria laughed. "Knock it off, you two," she said. She didn't sound as if she really expected them to obey her.

"Whatever you say,"answered Jonathan neutrally, taking a sip of water. He knew better than to drink in his condition. Alcohol would only intensify his symptoms.

"Jon is right. Tim did call me several days ago. He thought you might be staying here." Jorge stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and holding a beer. "He said he wanted to surprise you."

"And I would have, to," declared Tim boldly, "if it hadn't been for that damn bird. What's with that, anyway?"

"Tor shot him," Jack said promptly.

"And then I rescued him!" she said defensively.

"And I," said Jonathan, his words heavy with irony, "am his favorite perch."

Tim laughed. "Yeah, you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw that crow on your head. But I mean, the thing can obviously fly just fine. What's it still doing here?"

"Abundance of food," Jack told him. "These two," he nodded at Jonathan and Victoria, "over-feed the damned thing."

Jonathan looked at Victoria, unable to think of an immediate comeback. She looked back and shrugged.

"It's the truth," she admitted.

"Now, back to work," said Jorge decisively, throwing his bottle in the trash.

Jonathan added his groans to the chorus, but they all got up anyway.

"Why?" asked Tim, the sole remaining person seated. "What do you have to work on?"

"Not getting killed by the General's people," said Jack.

"Not getting caught by the police," said Jonathan.

"Holding my own in this house," Victoria told Tim with a roll of her eyes and a smile. "I think you know what I mean."

"Sweetheart," said Tim, clapping her shoulder as she passed, "do I ever!"

* * *

"I like that Tory kid," Tim told Jorge. "She's got some spunk."

They were standing by the back door, watching Jon and Tory through the window. The two were working on some kind of martial arts.

"What is that?" Tim added after a moment. "It looks kind of like kung fu, but not exactly."

"Jon and Tory have been working on a new kind of fighting," explained Jorge. The old man was leaning against the wall, arms casually crossed and eyes half-closed in contentment. The sun was slowly setting behind the mountains, casting strange patterns of orange light and shadow on the backyard, through the window, and onto the kitchen's tile floor. "Jon started to teach the _chica _to fight, but she kept doing things wrong. But the wrong things worked better. So now they work together, and together learn to do battle."

Tim admired the grace and fluidity of their movements as they sparred on the grass. "Pretty."

"Yes. It is almost like dancing." Jorge sounded rather proud of them. Then again, Tim had already noticed that he sounded proud of anything Tory did.

"Violent dancing," Tim corrected, as Jon, taking advantage of his longer limbs, nearly kicked Tory's head. The girl ducked at the last moment, her speed and grace astonishing.

"Yes. That is a good name for it," said Jorge thoughtfully.

The two were silent for a moment, and then Tim said, "You know, it's hard to believe."

"What is hard to believe?"

"That that little bit of a girl took down the scariest man who ever lived."

Jorge shifted against the wall. "The General was scary, yes. But perhaps not the scariest."

"Do you know one who's scarier?" asked Tim in disbelief, pale eyebrows raised.

Jorge shrugged. "If you asked Jon, he would say that the Batman is the scariest."

"Yeah, I've heard about him." Tim shook his head. "I can never make up my mind as to whether running into a giant bat in a dark alleyway would scare the crap out of me or just make me laugh."

"He is no laughing matter," said Jorge seriously. Tim looked at him sharply, rather impressed. If Jorge thought someone was badass, they were badass.

Still inwardly shaking his head over the weird crap that went on in Gotham, Tim returned to an earlier subject. "But I mean, look at her. You'd never guess, would you?"

Jorge was looking at her. To Tim's surprise, he looked sad. "No," the old man said quietly. "No, you would never guess."

"How are you taking that, by the way?" asked Tim softly.

Jorge looked at him sharply. "What do you mean, how do I take it?"

"You were the General's second-in-command for fifteen years, Jorge. Are you going to miss him?"

"Will I miss him?" asked Jorge, anger creeping into his voice like a heat wave. His Mexican accent was suddenly much stronger. "Will I miss the man who killed my bride? Who slaughtered innocents so that I should not leave his little," Jorge spat the last word, "_business_?"

Tim was silent. All of that had happened ten years ago, but Jorge had every right to still hate the man. After all, it wasn't every day your best friend murdered your fiancé and then told you it was for your own good.

"No, I will not miss him," said Jorge, calming a little. "Even now that he is in his grave, I hate him. I hate what he did to me, and I hate that I did not get to kill him for it. But every day, my friend, every day I wake up and I bless the _chica _who killed him. And I do all that I can, so that she may not be killed in turn."

It was getting harder to see Jon and Tory out there. Tim let his thoughts wander and suddenly laughed.

"What?" asked Jorge. He sounded suspicious.

"It's just…the General went to execute Jon and Jack."

"Yes?"

"But he got killed by Tory."

"And?"

"So, who had the authority to execute a general? I mean, generals are the top of the ladder. They head the food chain."

"So?" asked Jorge, sounding truly puzzled and not at all certain of Tim's sanity.

"And then I thought…well, royalty could execute a general. So that makes her royalty. And at first I thought she was a princess. And then I realized…"

"She is a queen," said Jorge, at last getting the joke.

"Yeah," said Tim with a laugh. "Queen Victoria! All hail the Queen!"


	23. Monster Eyes

Aha, finally! Sorry I didn't update sooner, but I've been having trouble with the site again.

Yes, yes, I know. More talk. But it's leading up to something very, very good indeed…

* * *

Tory leaned back in the deck chair and looked up at the stars. Perspiration still beaded her brow from that evening's match with Jon. He'd already gone inside – Tory had elected to remain here a few minutes. The time alone was welcome. Although she was rapidly learning to love the twins and Jorge, she still needed a quiet moment to herself now and then. Besides, as much as she enjoyed Jon's company, it was…complicated. 

The door opened, and Tory glanced over her shoulder to see who it was, trying to suppress the sinking feeling in her stomach. Surprise overwhelmed the disappointed sensation – it was Tim.

He dropped into a deck chair beside Tory. "Hey," he said amiably.

"Hey," she said back. Annoyance at having her little communion with the night interrupted vanished. She was too curious about this man.

She studied him. He was indeed a character. Short and thin, with slightly crooked teeth indicative of a childhood without braces. His pale skin was heavily freckled, his nose was long, and crowning this unusual face was a shock of white-blonde hair that stuck out in all directions.

He must have picked up on her scrutiny, because he said, "You know, I always thought it should be me that was 'Scarecrow.' I look more the part than Jon."

Tory laughed. She couldn't help it. It was true. And yet, he wasn't ugly. Or, rather, he possessed a kind of pleasant ugliness that was, in a strange way, easier on the eye than beauty.

"How long have you known Jon and Jack?" she asked.

"Oh, God. Ages." He counted on his fingers. "Eighteen years," he finally said.

Tory whistled. "I didn't think it had been _that _long."

"Yeah, it's kind of hard for me to believe, too."

"How did you meet?"

Tim laughed. "Oh, that's a good story." He leaned back in his deck chair and crossed his arms behind his head. "Jon was eleven and I was nine. It was his first day of high school, the poor bastard. Eleven years and a freshman. His parents were frickin' nuts…anyway, I stole his lunch money. All thirty bucks of it."

"_What_?"

"Ridiculous, isn't it? Their family was crazy rich. Didn't do much for…" Tim stopped abruptly, as if swallowing his words.

Tory had seen that happen once before, when Jon had started to talk about his parents. Curioser and curioser. Filing that little fact away, she nodded for Tim to proceed.

"Anyway, so the poor sod didn't get lunch on his first day. That's when it started, you know."

"What started?"

"Scarecrow. The nickname. People saw him not eating and teased him about. Told him he was already skinny as a scarecrow, didn't need to diet. Plus, it was kind of an ironic thing – you know, the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz didn't have any brains, and Jon had too many for his own damn good."

"People could tell that the first day?"

"Couldn't you?"

Tory recalled her first meeting with Jon and their subsequent "therapy sessions." Funny – she hadn't thought about those times in a while. "Not our first meeting. But once I really talked to him, yeah, it was pretty obvious."

"I told him to tone it down a bit – mess with his grammar a little, spend some time at the arcade, not answer every single frickin' question the teacher asked. But he was basically like, why bother. Didn't think it would do any good." Tim scratched his jaw thoughtfully. "Jon was never as good at hiding what he was as his brother."

"Hiding what he was?" Tory asked with raised eyebrows. "What was he?"

Tim looked at her very seriously. It was a look she'd seen before, from Jorge. A probing look. A questioning look. A look that said, "What are you made of and how will you take this?"

"They given them to you yet?" asked Tim after a long silence.

"Um…what?"

"Monster eyes."

Tory raised her eyebrows again. "Tim, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Guess not."

Tory sighed in exasperation. "Tim, just tell me what you're talking about."

Tim crossed his arms over his chest. He looked uncomfortable. "I'm talking about the mark of Cain," he said. "So to speak."

Just as Tory was about to start tearing her hair out in frustration, Tim began to really talk. "Most of the time, assassins, mob bosses, serial killers – you know, the big time people, the ones that kill – they look just like you and me. Can pass for average, easy as pie. But every once in a while, they'll slip. And then you get monster eyes."

"What do monster eyes look like?" Tory leaned forward, the better to see Tim in the darkness. "Show me."

"Oh, honey, I can't do them," said Tim, shaking his head and sending his unruly blonde hair flying. "I'm not a killer. I'm just a plain ol' thief."

"Well, what do they look like?" insisted Tory.

"Cold," was what Tim came up with after another long silence. "Or not so much cold, but empty. I'm sorry, I'm going about this badly. They're…they're focused. But blank, too." He paused, struggling. "Like they're horses wearing blinders. Can only see one thing at a time. And they're cold, but not in a don't-care-about-nothin' kind of way, more of a whatever-it-takes kind of way. Ruthless. And savage. Very savage. Like they could kill you as soon as look at you, and dance in your blood when they're done."

Tory felt a chill in her stomach.

_Like they could kill you as soon as look at you, and dance in your blood when they're done. _

_I wanted to kill him. I wanted to strangle him, and beat him, and cut him and watch him bleed. And I wanted that blood all over my hands and all over my body and on my tongue, and I wanted to watch him die and laugh in his face while he took his last breaths and even when he was dead never stop beating him over and over until he was nothing but a bloody pulp, a bloody, dead, stinking smear…_

"Tory, you okay?"

Tory shuddered and closed her eyes, taking a very deep breath. She opened them to see Tim's sympathetic face.

"Guess you have seen them, huh?" he said. "They kind of freaked me out at first. Then I figured, no way in hell they're going to kill me. We've been through too much shit. So I sort of let it go."

Tory nodded mutely, not giving away her real cause for distress. Not willing to talk about it.

Oh, God. What was she? Was she destined to be murderess? Born to kill? Why else would she have enjoyed it so much?

Tim was talking again, and Tory fastened on his fast-paced, pleasantly light voice. It seemed to lift her up out of her own soul, clearing her head and returning her to the present.

"So then, after school, Jon came back to the street where he figured his pocket got picked. And he waited around until I picked someone else's pocket. Then he caught up with me and said, 'Teach me how to do that, or I'll turn you over to the police.'"

"What!"

"Sick, isn't it? Eleven years old and already interested in crime."

"Well," said Tory with a weak smile, still in recovery from her little introspective moment. "_You _were the one who picked his pocket."

"Yeah, but I was dirt poor." He said it almost proudly. "They were rich and pretty."

Tory giggled. "Rich and pretty" suited the twins pretty well.

"So I taught him, and after a couple of lessons he brings Jack, and the rest, as they say," said Tim, spreading his long arms in a grand gesture, "is history."

"So you're, like, their best friend."

"Pretty much their _only _friend, sweetheart. 'Sides Jorge."

"You must know them pretty well."

He glanced at her warily – he must have noticed the slight calculating tone in that statement. "Yeah, pretty damn. Why?"

Tory took a deep breath, let it out. She had a question, but she had a feeling it would be dangerous to ask. Dangerous for her, dangerous for them, dangerous to the tentative relationship she had established with the twins.

What was worse? Knowing or not knowing?

Tory took the plunge. She'd always been impulsive. "Maybe you can explain why, whenever anyone starts to talk about the twins' parents, they staple their own lips shut."

He snorted with laughter at her imagery. Then the meaning sank through, and his face grew grave.

There was another silence. Tory could feel the tension – it made the hairs on the arms rise and sent tiny little butterflies off in her stomach.

"Let me ask you something," asked Tim quietly, quieter than she'd ever heard the man speak. "How serious are you and Jon?"

Tory looked down at her hands. They were wringing. Tory made herself stop and settled for interlacing her fingers.

"I love him," she said quietly. A curious surge of joy tingled through her. "I love him and I'm pretty sure he loves me. We don't always know _why_," said Tory dryly, with a private kind of smile at her hands, "but we do."

"But…" Tim gave voice to Tory's tone.

"We're not exactly dating. And we're not…intimate. I mean, we're intimate emotionally. In some ways, it's like we've been married for years. But we're not physical."

"Are you, um, attracted to him?" asked Tim delicately.

"_God_, yes," Tory choked out, squeezing her hands tight. "I want him so bad, I…" she glanced up at Tim's shining brown eyes and eager expression. "Never mind."

"No, go on," he said brightly. She glared at him and he grinned crookedly, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"So, why not?" asked Tim when Tory remained quiet.

"Because…" Tory struggled, trying to put into words what she knew in her soul but had never acknowledged to herself. She suddenly knew exactly how Tim must have felt when he'd tried to describe "monster eyes." "Because I don't know enough about him. Because…well, I've only seen one side of him. He's always been nice to me. Always. He's always looking out for me, and being sweet and protective and loving."

"But I know that's not all," continued Tory, her voice hardening from its dreamy, romantic tone. "I can sense other things in him. Other sides. I know they're there." She met Tim's eyes directly. "I've met Scarecrow, Tim. I'm not afraid of him. But it's not me I'm worried about. It's what he's done to other people, before me. And after me – what he might do again."

"So that's why I'm afraid to progress this, well, this relationship," Tory finished. "Because I've never seen the ugly side. I need to see that. Before I make any decisions, I need to know exactly what Jon is capable of."

She let out a sigh, a big _whoosh_ of contained air, and felt better. She hadn't solved anything, but it had been very nice to share her burden.

Tim made a _hmm_ sound and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring up at the stars. At last he cocked his head, nodded, and looked back down at her.

"It sounds," he said, "like you need to hear the story of the twins' parents. Right now," he added as an afterthought.

Tory leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, eyes wide and eager.

"Don't look at me like that," said Tim, sounding faintly alarmed. "I'm not going to tell you."

Tory sighed and stood up, stretching a little and suppressing a wince at her various aches and pains. "Okay," she said, catching hold of one elbow and stretching it behind her head. "I'll go to talk to Jon."

"That's the thing," said Tim. "It's not Jon's story."

"It's not?"

"Nope. You need to talk to Jack."

* * *

As far as "monster eyes" go, I sort of drew that from Red Eye. Remember the look Jack gave the complaining man at the airport towards the beginning? The really, really creepy look? That's monster eyes. If you haven't seen Red Eye, take a look at Jon's eyes whenever he's talking to Falcone. Those aren't as bad as Jack's, but they're pretty close. 


	24. Rippner

Jack was changing into his customary boxers-and-T-shirt outfit for bed when there was a firm rap on his door. He finished pulling up his shorts but left the T-shirt crumpled on the bed as he strode to the door.

He expected it to be Tim, trying once more to get Jack to change beds with him. Jorge had finally run out of bedrooms, leaving Tim to sleep on the fold-out couch in the living room, and his childhood friend had whined about it all evening. Failing Tim, he expected Jon, come to say goodnight, or even Jorge, wanting to discuss the next day's training schedule.

He opened the door.

It was Tory.

"Hi, Jack," she said. To anyone else, she appeared perfectly calm and confident. Jack, however, was trained in Kiss-and-Tell, had been living side-by-side with her for a month, and had a psychiatrist brother. He could tell: she was nervous.

"Hi, Tor," he said, letting his eyes do the questioning as he leaned against the door frame. It was a rather seductive pose, he realized as soon as he took it, but as fast as the thought formed he dismissed it. There had never been any sexual tension between Tory and himself. They simply weren't each other's types.

Jack preferred his women a bit more feminine than Tory. Tory wasn't a true tomboy, but she leaned that way. In addition, Tory was an ardent feminist. There was nothing that pissed Jack off more than a woman strutting around claiming to be able to do everything a man could do.

He wasn't a misogynist, just a realist. Men were physically stronger and more capable of direct thought. Women were weaker and more in touch with their emotions. Men were better suited to the outside world of work and politics, women to maintaining the well-being of the family. It was biology, for God's sake. Why did women insist on fighting their own natures?

The fact that Tory had violated all his assumptions about women didn't bother Jack. He counted her as the exception that made the rule, and privately took a great deal of credit for her rapidly improving skills with both weapons and the Kiss-and-Tell technique.

There was another exception to the rule, and that one bothered Jack a lot more. A _lot _more.

Damn her…

"Can we talk?" asked Tory, cocking her head to one side questioningly and brushing a chestnut lock out of her wide, dark eyes.

"Sure," said Jack, stepping aside and letting her into his room. As he closed the door he leaned briefly against it, wondering what she was doing here and hoping it wouldn't take too long.

When he turned around, Tory was perched on the edge of his bed, looking around. Jack snatched up his T-shirt and pulled it roughly over his head, flattening his hair over his eyes. Combing his hair out of his face with his fingers, he watched Tory's scrutiny.

"It's exactly the same as your room," he told her.

"It's so _neat_," she said. "I mean, you can actually see the floor and everything."

Teasing. Trying to put off something painful. Inwardly, Jack groaned. He just wanted to go to bed.

"Tor," he said, trying hard to keep his voice free of impatience. He must not have succeeded because she nodded briskly, her cute little face abruptly grave.

"Okay, I'll get to the point." Tory pulled her legs up on his bed and wrapped her arms around them. Jack sat down on the other side, cross-legged, leaning back onto his hands.

"Tim told me to talk to you," Tory said bluntly, with the directness that Jack admired about her. "I would have talked to Jon about it, but Tim said it was your story."

My story? Jack thought. What…oh, no.

"Yeah, it's my story," he said coolly, feeling his eyes harden and his face tighten. "What makes you think I'm going to share it?"

That seemed to stump Tory. "Um…please?" she finally asked.

Jack laughed harshly and got off the bed, pacing back and forth in the contained space of his bedroom.

God damn it. He forced himself to stop and put his hands against a wall, leaning into them. Thirteen years and it still bothered him.

Or perhaps bothered him wasn't the right word. "Excited" would have suited the bill equally well.

He liked telling his story. For one thing, it pretty much garnered him instant fear. If a target was acting up, he'd tell them what had happened when he was seventeen, and they generally cooperated after that. It earned him respect in the criminal world, too, although that respect was mixed with disgust. Nonetheless, it got him results.

Sometimes, he didn't have a purpose in telling it. Sometimes, it just felt good. Jack pushed himself off the wall and rubbed his forehead.

He didn't regret what he'd done. There was no guilt. Under the same circumstances, he'd do it again. But he still felt…weighted. Burdened. It had been too much, too soon. It had changed him forever, it had begun his life. When he told someone else, it was both a handing off of the responsibility and taking responsibility. As if, by sharing the story one more time, he could reaffirm the rightness of the events. He couldn't explain it, even to himself, any better than that.

No, normally he didn't mind telling his story at all. Telling it to Tory, however, was an entirely different matter. Jon had worked hard to bring her around, and he wasn't going to screw that up for his brother. And he had to admit, he liked the girl, too. She was like the little sister he'd never had and never wanted. He liked having her around to tease and joke with and teach her things. Most people he could take or leave, but Tory, somehow…she just fit. He wasn't about to jeopardize that.

"No," he told her. And instantly regretted it, because in three seconds she was on her feet and ready to fight.

"Yes," she said equally firmly.

Jack glared at her, feeling his anger – his greatest weakness, he knew that – rise. She glared back, then suddenly softened.

"Look, Jack, you're right."

"Can I get that in writing?"

She ignored him. "It's your story and you don't have to tell me. But I'm asking you. Please. I'm getting the feeling that this is really important, and that…before anything more happens…"

"Before you get involved with Jon?" Jack said for her.

"Pretty much," admitted Tory, rubbing the back of her neck – a gesture, Jack had noticed, that indicated Tory felt awkward. "And not just that…going to South America, and everything else…" Tory looked appealingly into Jack's eyes. "Jack," she started again, more firmly this time. "Would you spend your life with people you didn't really know?"

"You know us," said Jack shortly. He was getting uneasy, because, deep down inside, he knew that it wasn't true.

"No, I don't. You guys are nice to me, and I'm grateful for that. But I don't know you, either of you. And I'm really getting the feeling that this story of yours is a big piece of the puzzle. Jack…please."

He looked down, feeling his usual self-assurance completely drain away. Shit. If he told her, she'd leave. If he didn't tell her, she'd leave. Either way, Jon would be heart-broken. He'd never seen his brother like this about a woman before. Probably had something to do with being locked in Arkham for a year. That, and the fact that Tory and Jon had undeniable chemistry.

There was something about those two, something that just felt so right. It sounded cheesy, but it was true.

"Jack." Jack looked up, beginning to be a bit irritated again. Couldn't she shut up and let a man think?

"Jack," she said again, dark eyes warm. "Whatever it is, no matter how bad it is, I will understand."

If anyone else had said it, Jack would have laughed. But this was Tory standing there, arms at her sides, her eyes soft and caring.

"Fine," Jack said at last, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. "Fine. But don't say," and he held up one finger, "that I didn't warn you. You're probably going to hate us after this."

Tory didn't protest. She just waited.

Jack took a deep breath, hoping he was doing the right thing. After all, Tory seemed to be a pretty tough kid. Maybe she'd be able to deal with this. Maybe she wouldn't leave. But he knew Tory well enough by now that if he didn't tell her, she would _definitely_ leave.

It was a gamble, and Jack hated gambles. But this time, he didn't have a choice. Jon's future happiness was being decided right here, right now, and Jack knew that for his brother's sake he had to do this.

He began.

"I was seventeen years old and I'd just come home…"

* * *

He was seventeen and he was alone. Rosie, their loving nanny, had been abruptly fired four years ago. It didn't matter to their parents that the twins were devastated at her loss. All they'd said was, "You're too old for a nanny, now," and packed her back to South America.

Jon was gone as well. He'd graduated from high school three years ago and had planned to attend Gotham University and become a psychiatrist. When he'd told their parents that, they'd flatly refused. He was going to Harvard. He would come home every weekend without fail. And he had a myriad of choices as to his future career: he could be a doctor or a businessman.

Jon had always been the quieter twin, less obviously mischievous, less openly rebellious. So what he did shocked all of Park Avenue. He threw his parents' plans for his future in their faces, spent an hour telling them exactly what he thought of them, and stormed out of the posh apartment. Jack knew where he'd spent the night, although no one else did – at Tim's measly little share down in Queens. The next day he'd left for Gotham. So it was that, at the tender age of fourteen, Jon had begun to live his own life.

Leaving Jack in a monolithic apartment where no one ever came home.

If it hadn't been for his "business," Jack would have gone crazy. Thievery helped keep his mind off things. And unlike many other thieves, Jack had a great fence. Max was a crusty old guy with a fierce temper and a big, barking voice. He didn't ask, he gave orders. But he had a soft spot for his regulars, especially the young ones like Jack and Tim. He may have been gruff, but he looked out for you all right.

Not that Jack needed much looking after. His job was absurdly simple. Every time he was forced to accompany his parents on yet another boring dinner, he went upstairs and took his pick from the lady's jewelry box. He took care to take only generic-looking pieces that could be easily re-sold, and he only took one piece at a time. There was never a theft reported. All the empty-headed trophy wives simply assumed they'd forgotten it somewhere and went shopping for more.

Between big dinners Jack studied the houses of his "friends," made floor plans and lists of valuables, and sold them to Max. Max in turn sold them to big-time thieves, who would steal the stuff, turn right back around, and fence it to Max. For every successful robbery based off one of his maps, Max gave Jack an extra cut. And whenever the robbery did fail, it was never due to Jack's map.

Jack was making more than decent money. Since he had a generous allowance, however, he didn't keep much of it. Most of his earnings went straight to Jon, helping to finance his brother's education. Thanks to him, Jon had been able to quit one of his two jobs and focus even harder on studying.

Despite his insane schedule and their parents' strict no-contact rule, Jon usually managed to find one day a month to secretly visit New York and his twin. On his last visit, Jon had told Jack that he was investigating the local crime scene, searching for an area where his talents would be put to appropriate use.

One organization in particular had caught Jon's eye. Something called the League of Shadows.

Jon had promised to visit New York next week and that was what had Jack humming as he walked in the door. He hummed well – he was a talented singer, something his mother always managed to mention around company. Slinging his backpack in a corner, he headed straight for the kitchen, already hungry.

Snatching an apple from the fridge and a long knife from the counter, he began to slice, already tasting the pleasing mixture of nuts and fruit. Ah, apples and peanut butter, with a big glass of milk. It didn't get any better than that.

"Jackson," called out a deep male voice. Jack almost cut his thumb off.

"Jackson, come into the living room," added a high-pitched, rather affected female voice. Jack grimaced, gritting his teeth, and shoved the apple away with contained rage. He almost tossed the knife into the sink, then suddenly thought better of it. Carefully, he slid it down the side of his jeans, along his hip, leaving the black handle sticking over his belt. Not the best place necessarily, but without some kind of sheath he couldn't do much better. Pulling his polo shirt over the handle, he walked into the living room.

He could never explain, to his own satisfaction or anyone else's, exactly why he'd taken the knife.

His mother and father were seated on the couch. At opposite ends, naturally. His mother was a golden blonde with a starving figure, collagen-filled lips, and the beautiful blue eyes her sons had inherited. His father was big in the middle and heavy in the jowls, although his face must once have been sculpted like his sons'. He always wore a business suit and a tie. Always. Jack had never seen him in his shirtsleeves, even. Of course, he didn't spend much time with his father. Presumably, the man took off his suit when he was with his latest mistress.

"Have a seat, son," said his father.

Jack remained standing. "I've been sitting all day," he said with his usual charming smile. "Think I'll stand."

His father frowned. Jack's smile grew wider.

His mother leaned forward. "Honey, we need to talk about something very important."

Jack had to fight to keep his face from showing the disgust he felt. Something very important, indeed. Probably another ploy on her part to get his father to actually sit his ass down to dinner with the family. Or, more accurately, to get his ass back into her bed.

She was pathetic. The only reason she'd had Jack and Jon in the first place was to get their father's attention. When that had still proved wanting, she'd dumped the wailing newborns into Rosie's arms and spent the next two years complaining about the inconvenience of having twins. As if it had been their idea.

As they grew older their mother began to notice that they were cute. She took them shopping, dressed them like dolls, and showed them off to her friends. Suddenly, the fact that they were identical twins was a good thing. They were more noticeable, more adorable, and that reflected back on her.

When it was clear that Jon was a bona-fide genius and Jack a singing sensation, she'd been pleased as punch. And she'd worked them like animals. Making Jon skip four grades, forcing Jack to practice until his throat was sore. Lavishing them with affection when they performed up to her expectations, ignoring them disdainfully when they failed.

Only when Jon had rebelled had their father decided to involve himself in his sons' lives. The extent of his fatherly love and advice had been a blunt ultimatum: do as I say or get out.

Now he was here for the first time in months. What story could his mother have told his father that would drag him home? What lies had she said about Jack?

"Jackson," his mother said once more. Jack suppressed a mirthless chuckle. He'd asked his parents to call him Jackson when he was ten - ditto with his teachers and most of his friends. They'd all thought it was his actual preference. In truth, it was Jack's way of distancing himself. There were two people on this earth that called him Jack: Jon and Tim. Jack meant to keep it that way. Why should he hand his name over to strangers? Let the bastards stumble over two syllables.

"Tell us the truth, and we'll forgive you," his mother said. "Jackson…have you been stealing?"

Adrenaline shot through Jack's body, leaving his stomach cold and aching, his limbs shaking, his mouth dry. He took a quick breath, then another, re-teaching his lungs the fine art of breathing.

Damn. Damn. _Damn._

"No." To his own great surprise, the words sounded good. Shocked, taken aback, disbelieving. "Why would I do that?" he continued, waving his hand in a vague gesture around the enormous, luxurious apartment.

"Don't lie to us, Jackson," his father rumbled. Jack was beginning to feel a sinking sense of dread. His mother might be satisfied with vague protestations and innocent eyes. His father wouldn't.

"We found this," continued his father. His gravelly voice, always grave, was now downright ominous. He extended a hand. In it was one of Jack's maps.

He always hid them in his underwear drawer until they were finished. A cheesy hiding place, but it had worked…up until now.

Jack didn't take it from his father. He knew what it was, and what it meant. He just stood there for a moment, hands at his sides, staring at the damning document.

What had happened? Had the maid discovered it when she'd been putting his clothes away? Had his mother been sniffing around – perhaps for a secret journal? It didn't matter. What mattered was that they had it.

At last he lifted his eyes to his father's.

"What are you going to do?" he asked flatly, a new coolness pervading his words.

His mother flinched at his tone. His father looked briefly startled, but was soon composed. All business, all the time – that was Father. "I can understand," he said, his tone anything but understanding, "the adolescent need for thrills. So I'm going to give you this chance. If you promise to stop this, now and forever, I will not call the police."

"I." There was no "we" in this family.

Jack's life seemed to pass before his eyes. He saw himself on his knees, begging his father not to call the cops. He saw himself being paraded around like a prize for years by his mother without even the thrill of theft to keep him sane. Never doing business with Max. No more crazy laughs with Tim. Never being able to escape. Just dragged through life by his family and his culture and ending up like his father: a pudgy, hard-eyed man who devoted his life to business and changed mistresses every six months just to keep a vague hint of excitement in his life.

Jon had escaped the assembly line, so to speak. But now Jack never could, because every time he wanted to rebel, his parents would threaten to call the police. It was blackmail, pure and simple. Except that his parents would not be satisfied with money – what they wanted was his life.

Despair clouded his mind. He was a rat in a maze with no exit; he was a prisoner in the Bastille of Park Avenue.

His father's voice cut sharply through his numb confusion. "Well? Make up your mind. Either stop this criminal nonsense or go to jail."

There was only one choice, really. With a heavy heart, Jack opened his mouth to speak the words that would forever bind him to this life.

As he prepared to speak, he shifted forward. As he shifted forward, he felt an unprecedented pressure on the side of his thigh. For a second, he forgot what it was. Then he remembered.

He traced his fingers down the side of his jeans. It was a big knife. Long. Sharp. It would cut well and easily.

No! He couldn't do it. But…

Really, what was worse? Spending the rest of his life in chains, or…

It was inhuman. It was monstrous.

"What's it going to be, son?" his father demanded impatiently.

Something deep inside Jack snapped. He looked up. His hair had fallen forward, and between the brown locks his blue eyes shone furiously.

Fine. He was a monster. So be it. But he would not – _would _not – put up with this bullshit any longer.

"I am not your son," Jack told him fiercely. Rage made his voice almost as gravelly as his father's. "You are not my father."

His father immediately turned to his mother, clearly prepared to accuse the woman of cheating. How typically hypocritical.

"Oh, don't look at her," Jack sneered. "She's never been anything but loyal. In fact, it's the best damn thing that can be said about her. No," continued Jack softly, taking one step forward, "I'm talking about you and me."

He took another step forward, closer to the couch. His father's focus was back on him.

"Oh, I've got your DNA, all right. There's no doubt about that. I look like you, I'm smart like you, I've even got similar taste in clothing. All right, so your sperm united with her egg to produce me. Big deal. Big – _fucking _– deal."

He was right on top of him now, towering over his seated father. For once, the man was speechless and uncertain, his mouth wide open as he stared up at the enraged teen.

"You were never there. You never gave a damn. I can count on one hand the number of times you've spent more than five consecutive minutes with Jon and I in our childhood. One _hand_, damn you!"

Jack's voice had risen to a shout, his face contorted with a snarl of rage. The next instant his face was calm and contemptuous, blue eyes icy, voice quietly bitter.

"And then, when your sons are becoming men, when they need your support and love and advice the most, you kick one of them out – _at fourteen._ What had he done? the shocked neighbors wondered. It must have been something awful. So awful, in fact, that most of them don't even dare ask. And so you get away with what should have been a crime: sending your teenage son to live on the streets because, horror of horrors, he dared to disagree with you!"

"Jackson…" said his mother timidly.

"Shut up!" he screamed at her. She huddled tighter into the corner of the couch. "You stay the _fuck _out of this!"

"Don't talk to your mother that…" his father started furiously, but faltered when Jack's face whipped back around to him. Jack glared down at him.

"Don't even go there, you fucking adulterous asshole. Don't try and teach me respect. Haven't you read the parenting books?" he asked with mock innocence. His words were sweet and lilting and cruel. "You have to lead by example, you know. Otherwise, your kids could get really," he spat the next words, "_fucked up._ But guess what? It's too late. Here I am. Fucked up. By you. Isn't that too bad? But hey, I've got great news for you. You'll never have to pay the therapy bills."

His father didn't seem to be absorbing his words. He just sat there, face ashen, his eyes fixed on Jacks'. Inwardly, as if from very far away, Jack wondered what about his face could be so frightening that it would completely disable his autocratic, CEO father.

The quiet question was drowned in a wave of heady pleasure. God, this was good. To watch them cower…to see their shocked faces…to know that, in a few more seconds, he would be forever free of them.

His hand reached under the hem of his shirt and found the knife's handle.

"But do you know what your biggest mistake was?" he asked softly. His father apparently didn't hear. Jack leaned forward, grabbed his father by his tie, and yanked him forward so that his face was mere inches away from Jack's.

"I said," Jack repeated harshly, "_do you know what your biggest mistake was_?"

"No," his father whispered.

Jack released his father, who collapsed back against the couch, dark eyes and enlarged pupils still seemingly entranced by his son's eyes.

"You should never have named me Jack."

For a moment confusion crossed his father's face. Then his expression changed to sheer horror, then to pain, and finally went slack.

His mother screamed and screamed. She clambered awkwardly, desperately over the back of the couch and ran towards the door.

Jack pulled the knife out of his father's throat, dodged the spray of blood that followed – didn't want to get that all over his shirt, now did he? – and followed her. His footsteps were steady and slow. He had all the time in the world. He was a lion on the savannah, stalking an antelope. He was a hawk, flying down with talons extended to snare the running rabbit.

His mother screamed again, but on a different note. It seemed to be almost a cry of relief. "Jon!" she exclaimed.

Jack's world speeded up once again. Jon? What was Jon doing here? Oh, no…He sprinted for the gray marble entryway.

His mother was standing in front of the open walnut door. Just above her dyed blonde locks he could see his brother's brown, wavy hair.

His mother glanced over her shoulder and screamed. Jon craned his head around and also stared at his brother. Jack looked down at himself, at the bloody knife in his hand.

His mother screamed once more – it was really beginning to grate on his nerves – and dove for the door, pushing her other son out of the way. Jack started forward, mouth opening to beg Jon to not let her go. If she escaped, if she called the police, if she told anyone, he was dead…

It was too late. He didn't need to say a word. Their mother stared first at her wrist, which had Jon's long fingers wrapped tightly around it, then fearfully up into her son's face.

Jon's voice was cool and calm, as always – yet there was a note of ironic pleasure, of bitter enjoyment…a subtle cruelty tinted with old, old pain.

"What?" he asked her softly. "You expected mercy from _me_?"

Their mother never said a word. Not when Jon turned her to face Jack, arm twisted behind her back to hold her still. Not when Jack raised his bloody knife. Her eyes were wide and frozen with horror, her face drained of blood. Secretly, Jack always wondered if maybe, after all, he hadn't killed her – if, really, she'd died when she'd heard Jon's merciless words and seen the look in his eyes.

When it was done, Jon and Jack stared at each other for a long, long time.

"I'm fucked," Jack finally said calmly. He felt calm, all right. But it was the kind of calm that wasn't real, the kind of calm that came when one thought about death. The mind can be completely rational, can calmly accept inevitability, but beneath all that, deep down inside, another part of the soul is screaming in fear.

"_We're _fucked," corrected Jon, stepping over their mother's dead body, nimbly avoiding the growing pool of blood. "I killed her, too." His voice was as dispassionate as Jack's. Jon stared at their mother's body for a moment, then looked up at his brother. "Is Father coming home any time soon?"

"He's dead, too," Jack told him. He felt a terrible, terrible smile twist his handsome features. "I killed him first."

"Ah," said Jon, and thought about it for a moment before adding, "Good."

"Do you think anyone heard her scream?" asked Jack. The adrenaline-high he'd been riding on was draining away, and he was starting to feel sick, not at the idea of killing his parents so much as knowing he was about to suffer the consequences.

Jon shook his head. His carefully styled hair fell partly out of place, and he absent-mindedly tucked a strand back. Jack rather liked his brother's new hairstyle. It was too much work for him, though. He liked being able to wash, brush, and go.

Jon seemed to be thinking about something. He was leaning against one wall, absent-mindedly drumming his fingers against the expensive wallpaper. Jack hoped he tore it.

"What?" Jack finally asked impatiently. His nerves were beginning to scream: waiting for the sirens, waiting for the shouts, waiting for the sound of gunfire and the clank of handcuffs...

"Look," Jack snapped when Jon didn't respond, "I don't know about you, but I figure we should be high-tailing it out of here. Or should I just go ahead and call the police and turn us in?"

Jon straightened up off the wall and walked into the kitchen. Jack followed him, still clutching the knife, and stared as his brother pulled the phone off the hook on the wall.

"Jon! Jon, I was _kidding_. Jon, look, please put the phone down…"

Jon finished dialing and put the phone to his ear. "May I speak to Mr. Al Ghul?" he asked after a moment. "Thank you." There was another pause. "Mr. Al Ghul? It's Jonathan Crane. We spoke two months ago." Pause. "Yes, I've decided to accept your offer." Pause. "Yes, sir, I understand what it means. I am prepared for the consequences." Pause. "Frankly, sir, I agree in regards to Gotham. I thought New York was bad until I moved there…" Faintly, very faintly, Jack could hear "Mr. Al Ghul" chuckling. "Yes," Jon continued. "I'll enjoy working with you as well. It's just…I need a favor." Jon turned and glanced Jack's way. "Yes, I have a bit of situation here at home. 324 Park Avenue. I need a clean-up…thank you, sir….I hope to hear from you soon." Jon hung up.

"A clean-up?" asked Jack, somewhat skeptically. He felt like the stereotypical man in the desert who has spotted water but isn't sure if it's salvation or a mere mirage.

"A clean-up," confirmed Jon, turning back around.

"Arranged by this Al Ghul guy?"

"Ra's Al Ghul," corrected Jon, and Jack was surprised at the faint note of reverence in Jon's voice. It took a lot to earn Jon's respect. "He's the leader of the League of Shadows. He's contacted some people who can help us."

Jack leaned on the counter, absently twiddling the knife between his fingers as he contemplated this new hope. Could it be possible? Would he actually get away with this? Was it really that easy?

"What will they do?" asked Jack uncertainly.

"Clean up, I suppose," said Jon with a shrug. "Maybe do something as far as an alibi for you. I'll probably just say I was in Gotham…I don't think anyone knows I'm here."

"What are you doing here, anyway?" asked Jack belatedly.

"_They _called," said Jon, with a vague nod to their parents' decaying corpses. "Said they had something to discuss."

"They did," said Jack slowly. He ran his fingers up and down the blade, then pulled them away and stared at their red, dripping tips. "They found out what I was doing."

"Hmm," said Jon. "So that's what this was about."

"You know what they would have done, don't you?" demanded Jack, staring deep into his brother's eyes. "You know what they would have done to me?"

Jack didn't need to explain. He could tell from the sympathy in his brother's eyes that Jon understood completely. Jon just nodded, then suddenly pulled Jack into a hug.

Jack rested his head on his brother's shoulder. "I'm scared," he said, surprising even himself.

"Why? It'll all be taken care of."

Jack almost didn't pursue it. Jon was right – if this clean-up worked, he would walk away a free man. But that wasn't what bothered him.

"That wasn't what I meant," Jack confessed, closing his eyes. "It's just…" He pulled away so that they could look at each other, but kept his hands on Jon's arms. "I've gone too far," he admitted with a brittle laugh. "I've screwed something up inside me and I don't think it's ever going to get better."

Jon looked down, and Jack watched his chest expand and collapse with a deep breath. Then he looked up again, and Jack started at the haunted look in his brother's eyes.

"I know what you mean," Jon with a sad, twisted little smile. "I understand."

His eyes were so wounded that this time Jack was the one who pulled his brother into a hug. As they held each other, realization began to dawn on Jack. He'd known his brother had changed ever since his senior prom night, when Jon had indirectly killed a woman and paralyzed the local bully. Jack hadn't gotten it, then. He'd just applauded his brother's genius and then wondered why he seemed so cold, so withdrawn. Now he understood.

He remembered what he'd been thinking just before he started his rant. That in doing this, he would become a monster. Well, he'd done it…and now, he couldn't ever go back. Neither of them could.

"Hello?" called a Mexican-accented voice from the doorway.

Moving with the synchronized action that only twins can display, Jon and Jack broke their embrace and rushed to the doorway. Standing there was a tall Hispanic man with long black hair and a drooping black mustache. He was holding a big duffel bag in his hand and staring at their mother's corpse.

As the twins ran into the room, he looked up and glared at them. "You left the door open?" he asked, an equal mixture of disbelief and disgust in his voice.

Jack hung his head, blushing furiously.

"Ah, kids," said the Mexican indulgently, closing the door. "Now, let's get to work. You are Jack, yes?" he said to Jack. His eyes were on the knife in Jack's hand.

"Yeah," said Jack, straightening up. "Yeah, that's me."

"And Jon?" the Mexican asked Jon. "You work for Ra's Al Ghul, yes?"

"Yes," confirmed Jon, looking very cool and aloof and grown-up.

"_Bueno_. I am Jorge. There is no one else here?"

"No," the twins said together.

"_Muy bien. _Let's get started."

Jorge proceeded to launch rapid-fire questions at them both. What, exactly, had happened? How much time had it taken? Where had they been before now? Did they have friends who would vouch for them? Had Jack used only the knife? Had he touched anything with blood on his hands? Were there neighbors around? How many people had keys to the apartment? And so on and so forth.

Jack and Jon answered as best as they could while Jorge roamed all over the apartment, always taking care, Jack noticed, not to step in the multitude of blood. Jorge stopped for a moment when they'd reached the living room and examined their father.

"Not bad," he said, looking at the wound. "A neck stab can be hard to do." Jack, somewhat to his own surprise, felt a little surge of pleasure.

Well, why not? Why shouldn't he be pleased? After all, if he was going to be a monster, he might as well be a good one.

There was a knock on the door, a very curious knock: one long knock followed by two short ones, then three long ones again. To Jack's surprise Jorge quickly hurried back to the entryway and pulled open the door.

"You didn't have to come," said Jorge, stepping back to allow the new person in. It was a tall, broad-shouldered, powerful-looking man with brown hair, a deep tan, and piercing gray eyes.

"I was interested. How often do kids knock off their folks?" The man's eyes casually scanned the room and came to rest on the twins.

"Huh. Twins. Al Ghul didn't mention that."

"Can we help you?" asked Jack, feeling a bit irritated. This wasn't a public zoo.

The man chuckled deep in his chest. "You're lucky I like spunk, kid." The tone was amiable, but the words felt vaguely threatening. Jack shut up while the stranger crouched and studied their mother. "Nice work," he said approvingly. "What was the trouble? Family squabble?"

"They found out I'd been stealing," said Jack shortly.

"What? From their wallet?"

"I work for Max," Jack elaborated, hating himself for needing to impress this arrogant asshole and wondering if he'd get Max in trouble.

"Max, huh? He does good work," said the man, standing back up. His eyes seemed to pick Jack up and pin him against the wall. "So they found out and you killed them?"

"Yes," said Jack bluntly, almost pugnaciously.

"Nicely cold-blooded," the man said. To Jack's surprise, he smiled. "I could use a couple more like you."

"Excuse me, but who are you?" asked Jon, polite as always, but with an undercurrent of tension.

The man turned to him. He seemed a trifle more respectful of Jon, although that might have been Jack's imagination. Or perhaps not. Jon, in connecting himself with the League of Shadows, had apparently made some powerful friends. "I'm Samuel Trent. You've probably heard of me as the General."

Jack went pale. He'd only heard of the General once or twice, but always in hushed tones and with fearful looks. The General was the greatest assassin on this side of the world and the leader of a vast, loosely connected organization made of hundreds of other killers.

Oh, God. He'd just sassed _the General_.

Jon seemed less shocked. Maybe he'd already guessed who the man was, or perhaps he'd gotten used to dealing with the stars of the criminal world – from what little Jon had told him, Jack had gathered that the League of Shadows was pretty big stuff.

"What's left?" the General asked Jorge.

"Wipe the knife and pull the valuables," summarized Jorge succinctly. "It will look like a robbery gone bad. You," he told Jack firmly but not unkindly, "wear a coat over your shirt and a baseball cap and take the subway to your friend Tim's. You said he would swear that you were there?" Jack nodded. "Good. When you get there, wash your clothes right away – there is a little blood - and then put them back on. Have Tim put the hat in the back of his closet. You," he turned to Jon, "I will drive you back to Gotham so that no one will remember you on the train or in a taxi. And remember, you spent the day studying." Jon nodded acquiescence. "In the meantime," Jorge added, "you sit in the car until I am done. Keep your head down so that no one sees you. Take the stairs, both of you, not the elevator." Jorge paused for a second. "What do you two wait for? Go."

"You're a clever man, Jorge," said the General, grinning at his shorter companion. "Don't know what I'd do without you."

"You would be in jail," said Jorge dryly. Jack opened the closet and pulled out a coat and a hat. Jon waited until he was done donning them, and then they left together, shutting the door behind them.

"Are you going to be all right?" Jon asked quietly.

Jack took a deep, shaky breath. "I think so," he said, equally quietly. "Just…can I have a minute alone?"

"Okay," said Jon gently. He walked over to the stairway's door and pulled it open. Just before he went down he looked over his shoulder and added gently, "Listen, if you need anything, call."

"You'll be right back," reminded Jack. "For the funeral."

"Yeah, you're right. Well, in that case, I'll see you soon." Then Jon was gone.

Jack leaned against one wall and closed his eyes, trying not to think about anything, trying to clear his head. He was largely unsuccessful. Vaguely he knew he was in some sort of shock. Well, he'd just have to snap out of it. Maybe fresh air would help.

Jack pulled himself together and started for the stairs.

"Hey," said a voice behind him.

Jack whipped around so fast he almost fell down. The General was standing there.

"Not bad work, kid." The General extended a hand. Between his scarred, blocky fingers was a white card.

Jack took it. On it was a phone number and nothing else.

"You need a job, give me a call. Like I said, I could use a few more like you."

Jack stared up at the General and nodded. He turned back around to the staircase.

"And Jack…"

He looked over his shoulder at the General.

"Next time, don't just wing it like that. Have a plan."

* * *

Although Jack didn't call the General for more than a year, he made his decision that day. He knew what he was destined to be.

And when it came time to take on an alias, he'd already chosen it. Jon always took credit for that, claiming that Jack had gotten the idea from his thesis. Jack didn't bother to correct him. But the truth was, he'd decided his name when he was standing over his stunned father, seconds away from stabbing him in the throat.

_You should never have named me Jack._

His father hadn't gotten the joke. Then again, he'd never understood anything about his sons.

Jorge had gotten it right away.

"_And what name would you like on your fake I.D., Jack?"_

_Jorge was filling out a small form. That night, the information on it would be transferred to a brand-new driver's license, and Jack would be a brand-new person in the General's service._

"_Rippner," he said. "R-I-P-P-N-E-R. Jackson Rippner."_

_Jorge looked up, dark eyes intent on Jack's face. "Good name," he said at last._

"_You think?"_

"_It suits you."_

Jack's eyes refocused slowly on Tory's face. He'd been so involved in his story that he hadn't even seen his surroundings. In fact, he could barely remember the words he'd used.

But clearly he'd gotten the message across, because Tory's face was as white as a sheet.

"All right?" Jack asked. He meant it to come out reassuringly, but somehow it seemed more threatening.

"I don't know," said Tory with her usual honesty. She got off his bed. "I need to think."

And without another word she walked out his door.

* * *

Okey dokey! Sorry about the long wait for this chapter. Truthfully, I had a really hard time writing it. I'm still not entirely sure about it, so let me know what you think.

For those of you who haven't seen Red Eye, Jack does hint in the movie that he killed his parents. He says it like he's joking, and he might be, but it _is _Jack we're talking about...

I got a lot of my inspiration for the twins' parents from _The Nanny Diaries_, which is a fantastic book that everyone must read. That's an order:)

I'll try and get the next chapter up a lot sooner. And I promise, as soon as I work out this one, extremely important evening things will pick up pretty fast.

By the way, Aoi Dragon...what are you, psychic? I'd already planned to make Jack a singer before you told me Cillian could sing, and you guessed right away that Jack had killed his parents. You're good! Oh, and I downloaded "So New," too.

Open question for everyone: if I burn a CD of Cillian Murphy singing "So New" so that I can fall asleep to his voice every night, is that okay, or am I verging into creepy stalkerdom? ;)


	25. Destiny

"FUCK!" screamed Tory as soon as she'd slammed the back door behind her. "Fuck fuck fuck fucking HELL!"

She collapsed onto the yellow-green grass of Jorge's backyard and burst into tears.

What was she doing here? _What was she doing here_?

She'd known all along that this was a bad idea. Like she'd said to Jon, so long ago:

_When I'm around you, I feel like there is more to me than there seems. And frankly, that's both incredibly scary and incredibly cool…the thing is, I feel more like myself around you, but I'm not sure if being myself is always such a good thing…_

She'd known, even back then, that spending time with him would change her, force her out of her comfortable ideas and into a new and frightening sense of reality.

Every once in a while she'd had the sinking feeling that she had gone too far, that she was losing her inner moral compass. Things which would have seemed awful to her only a few months ago now seemed perfectly reasonable. Theft had become a joke, torture practical, murder an unfortunate necessity of business.

Only now – when she realized the full extent of their crimes - could she see just how low she'd fallen.

Tory rolled over onto her side and curled up in the fetal position, letting her cheek rest against the prickly grass, and sobbed. It all seemed to be springing up at once. The loss of her beloved family and friends, the trauma surrounding the General's death, her confusion about Jon – it was too much. Her grief was overflowing her body, spilling over her physical boundaries. Her sobs wracked her small frame until she was breathless and gasping; tears soaked her cheeks, leaving salty residue behind that dried her skin. The sounds of her whimpers and occasional cries seemed quiet in the night, as if the surrounding desert took the sounds and buried them in its dry, crusty earth.

Images and thoughts reverberated in her skull. Tory pounded her fist on the ground, her fingernails biting into her palm, but she couldn't stop them.

_Pain – the shoelace cutting into her hand as she struggles to hold it tight._

_Chest spasms, struggling to breathe. Jon on top of her, his hands around her throat, laughing manically as she loses consciousness._

_Jon's lips brushing her own, their swift touch sending electricity all up and down her body._

_The General's purple lips and flapping tongue._

_Jack shouting and laughing in joy at his death. Blue eyes so bright, so happy._

_Just now – so bright, so hard. His lips curving, "We killed her together."_

"_Whatever it is, no matter how bad it is, I will understand."_

_Jon's hand up and down her back, up and down. She wishes he would touch her other places…_

_His lips against her cheek._

_His arm around her waist, holding her tight._

_Pressing her against him._

_Oh, God._

_Jon._

_Jon._

"I hate him!" screamed Tory into the ground. "I hate him! I fucking _hate _him!"

The way he could undo her with a single look, a little smile…his calm, cool manner. Cold, he was so cold. She'd known that – had always felt that. He was so dangerous. They both were.

They'd killed their goddamn _parents_. She remembered the smile on Jack's face as he'd recited his story and whimpered. Although, to be fair to Jack, he _had _seemed a bit bothered by what he'd done.

Jon hadn't been bothered when he'd told Tory about his senior prom. He'd practically glowed with pride. Then again, indirectly causing an accident probably wasn't half as traumatic as stabbing your own father in the throat.

Jon had helped kill his mother, though. Tory shuddered. She saw it in her mind: Jon pulling his mother's arm behind her back and holding her, helpless, as Jack advanced with the knife.

What kind of person _did_ that!

She squirmed against the ground, digging at it with her fingers, as if in burying herself she could bury the thought, could erase what they had done.

Then she thought: I can't erase what they've done.

The realization should have brought more despair; instead, it brought relief. She contemplated it idly, repeating it to herself like a mantra, as her clenched-tight body slowly began to relax.

I can't erase what they've done.

I can't erase what they've done.

Her mind at last eased, her thoughts slowing until she felt blank and empty, exhausted by her torrent of grief.

Tory rolled onto her back and looked up at the stars. That was one thing she'd missed about her native Wyoming – the night sky. The darkness seemed to be almost ablaze with the white light of the stars, and the Milky Way shone, its path clearly visible in the black sky.

Wiping her eyes and regaining her breath, Tory absently contemplated the unique order of the stars, feeling – as always – reassured by the vista. Some people looked at stars and felt insignificant. Tory always felt the opposite. Here was this beautiful pattern, and she was a part of it. A tiny, tiny, _tiny _part, but a part nonetheless. What was more amazing than that?

Everyone had a part. Even Jon and Jack had a part.

What was their part?

They were monsters. Real monsters. She wasn't sure she could ever think of them as human anymore. Could she ever be comfortable with them again, wondering if they could kill her as easily as they'd killed their parents? Could she ever look at their hands without seeing their own kin's blood dripping down those long, pale fingers? Could she ever bear Jon's touch again, or would she always skitter away, waiting for his hand to fasten hard around her wrist?

What part could monsters play?

The thought seemed to come from outside herself.

_Monsters can see in the dark._

Tory blinked. Monsters can see in the dark? An odd way to put it…yet it made sense.

These were dark times for humanity, that was for certain. Tory had seen enough of Gotham to realize that. She remembered the day she'd stumbled upon the dead body of a homeless man on her way to class, and the time her friend was raped and almost killed in a back alley.

So, if these were dark times, then maybe monsters were necessary. When things got gruesome and dirty and brutal, ordinary people couldn't handle it. It took people who weren't people, who were more – or less – than human to cope with things like that.

Was it true? Did monsters have a place in the world? Were they needed?

She came back to her original thought:

I can't erase what they've done.

Well, she couldn't. And she wasn't responsible for it, either. Tory laughed – a hysterical, half-choked giggle – when she realized that she'd been trying to share in their guilt.

Her initial reaction had been that if she was living with murderers, she was endorsing their crimes. Her emotions exhausted for the time being, she examined that idea with clinical calm.

If she lived with them, was she as guilty as they were?

No. She had never participated in their crimes. She wasn't responsible for what they had done before she'd met them.

But shouldn't she turn them in? Make them pay for what they'd committed in the past?

That one was relatively easy. She'd given Jack her word that she wouldn't do so. Besides, if she turned them in, they would die, and Tory didn't believe in the death penalty.

They'd committed terrible crimes and learned a lot in doing so. Could they ever use their skills for good? Could they ever change?

She doubted that their personalities would change significantly. But it was possible that they could use their talents in other arenas. However, they probably wouldn't do so unless she nudged them in the right direction.

_That _was her responsibility. Not towards what they had done already, but what they were capable of.

Something clicked inside Tory. When she'd come out here, everything had felt all wrong. Now, everything felt all right.

They weren't human, but they needed her. They had no conscience: therefore, Tory would be their conscience. She wasn't sure how much she could do to change their ways, but she was bound to do all she could.

And besides all the heavy morality stuff…as much as she hated to admit it…she needed them.

She'd always felt connected to Jon, right from the start. And, once she and Jack had worked out their differences, she'd come to appreciate him, too.

She thought about them, about their eerily alike looks, their expressive blue eyes, their identical mouths that smiled so differently. Jon, groping around the table for his coffee and flipping his brother off. Jack, wrestling with her for the remote, his ribs shaking with laughter even as he glared at her. Jon's arms around her waist in his morning hug. His cold blue eyes that always warmed whenever they glanced at her. The way he kept an absolutely straight face whenever he told a joke. The feel of his lips against her hair, her cheek, her mouth. The subtle tenderness that he always showed her, along with his not-so-subtle possessiveness.

She hated – _hated_ – what they'd done. But she couldn't hate them. She knew she should, but she couldn't. She'd lived with them too long, shared too much with them. If she left now, she knew she'd be leaving a piece of herself behind.

Like it or not, her destiny was here.

Tory lay on her back for a few more moments, thinking. Then she got up and opened the door, entering the house once again.

Jon was a night owl. He would still be awake.

* * *

Jonathan was having a bad night. 

His vision was distorted, wavering and shaking. He leaned against the shower wall and closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. He'd once loved the night, finding it easier to concentrate when the rest of the city was asleep. Now he hated it. The hallucinations intensified as he grew more tired – another reason, besides mere addiction, for his numerous cups of coffee a day. Caffeine was his medication now – that and exercise. When he was physically tired, the visions faded. It was only when his brain began to slow that he was plagued by the hallucinogen's effects.

Jonathan heard noises. Voices whispering from a corner of the ceiling, an ominous creaking sound beneath his feet. The opening and shutting of the bathroom door.

Despite his efforts, Jonathan tensed at that last one. It was just a hallucination, he told himself, but words didn't comfort his frantically racing heart. Oh, God, it was him, it was the Batman…no, no, it was just a hallucination…Batman…no…no!

Jonathan's nerve broke. He flung open the shower door, letting the water hit the tile floor as he frantically scanned the bathroom.

Well…it wasn't exactly a hallucination.

"Tory?" he gasped, strongly aware of two things: one, he was stark naked. Two, the distortion of his vision and the hallucinations were gone. Apparently, shock was also an effective remedy.

Hmm. He'd have to remember that – whoa, whoa, _wait a minute_. What was Victoria doing _here_!

No, Jonathan told himself firmly, do not speculate about the possible reasons for Victoria's presence. You're probably wrong, and there's no point in getting all excited. Particularly when you're standing in front of her stark naked.

"Hi," she said breathlessly. Her eyes dropped briefly down, then back up to meet his. Jonathan felt his cheeks beginning to burn.

"Hi. What is it?" he asked, considering reaching for the towel to cover himself. No, it was too far away.

"I just wondered," said Victoria, slowly walking forward. Jonathan caught his breath and held it as she moved closer. "If you…"

"Yes?" he whispered. She was mere inches away. Her cheeks were flushed to match her red nose and eyes. She looked like she had been crying hard. Jonathan wondered what could have upset her, but was rapidly distracted from that thought by the fascinating sight of her moving lips.

"If you…if, um…" She blushed even more deeply. "If you were…going to be done in the shower soon?"

They stared at each other for a moment, the only noise the splashing water of the running shower.

"Yeah," said Jonathan quietly. "I'll be out in just a minute."

"Um, okay," Victoria replied sheepishly, and she started to turn away.

He couldn't take it any more. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, pulled her against him, and kissed her.

Their only kiss had been that tentative peck back at Arkham. This was no peck, and it wasn't gentle. Within seconds Jonathan's tongue forced her mouth open and invaded her, eagerly tasting her wet warmth. She responded with equal aggressiveness, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her mouth hard against his. The feel of her jean shorts and ribbed tank against his naked body made him writhe in need.

Without breaking their kiss he turned and shoved her against the shower wall, wrapping one arm around her waist and supporting her head with the other. The water was pounding around them, soaking her clothes. He reached up underneath the wet tank and caressed her bra-covered breast. She moaned into his mouth and wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling him even harder into their kiss.

The kiss slowed, deepened. Harshly probing tongues became softer, more caressing; they explored each other, tasted each other, reveled in each other. At last their lips broke reluctantly, and both gasped for air, their chests heaving.

Victoria leaned her head back against the shower wall and smiled up at him as she caught her breath. He smiled back, still only half-believing that this was real, still expecting her to dissolve under his touch: just another mirage.

He remembered his initial fantasies about her. He'd wanted to own her, possess her, and then terrify her into submission. He'd wanted to pull her to the floor and whisper her deepest, darkest fears into her ear until she was screaming and writhing underneath him.

When he'd gotten to know her better his desire to frighten her had faded. He hadn't wanted her broken and crippled by fear the way he was now. He'd wanted her to give herself over, to voluntarily love him, to be truly his forever. And now…

Looking at her – at her red nose and sore, weepy eyes and wet hair straggling all over her face – he couldn't imagine life without her.

He wanted her beside him, now and always. And not just as a conquest or a possession – as a partner. His partner. In life, in love, and, most likely…in crime.

"I love you," he whispered, surprising even himself.

A single tear spilled down her cheek. He might never have noticed it amid the flying droplets of the shower if he hadn't been watching. He caressed her cheek with his palm, wiping it away, and her head turned to follow the caress.

"I love you," she whispered into his palm, then looked back up at him, dark eyes shining. She smiled again and reached up to kiss him.

This time, it was a gentle kiss. When they drew apart, Jonathan wrapped his fingers around the edge of her tank top.

"Come on," he whispered into her ear. "Let's get you out of these wet clothes."

* * *

Another slightly iffy chapter in my opinion, but hey, I'm just the author - what do I know? Plus I had a lot of fun writing the shower scene...as I'm sure you could tell. ;) 

As per request, I am from now on displaying the titles of the chapters prominently. Just in case any of you were wondering.

Question: If I wrote a sex scene for Jon and Tory, would anybody read it? I think it would be fun, but it probably would be relatively graphic and I'm not going to write it if no one is interested in reading it. Also, if I _did_write it, I'd make it a separate chapter so anyone who wanted to skip the scene could do so without missing the plot.

Lemme know!

P.S. Yes, I did burn a CD of Cillian Murphy singing "So New" to fall asleep to at night. So sue me, I like the song. :)


	26. The Calm Before the Storm

The Calm Before the Storm

Okay, now that the vast majority of you declared you would be willing – nay, eager – to read a sex scene, I decided not to write it.

(Dodges various unpleasant objects being hurled through the air) I'm sorry!

Truthfully, I really wanted to write it, but it just didn't seem to fit the flow of the story. I mean, this one day has taken up FOUR CHAPTERS, it's definitely time to move on. I'll probably insert one later, though, if that makes people feel any better.

And yes, I know, four times in one night is probably stretching it…like, a lot. But hey, it's fiction! We're allowed to dream.

I deeply apologize for the long update time and inexcusably short chapter. I'm rapidly approaching finals week AND am looking for a job, so there hasn't been much time to write. Trust me, I have no intention of stopping this fic. Just give me a little break until summer properly starts, and then I'll have plenty of time to write.

So…on with the show!

They started in the shower but ended up on Jon's bed. Later, Jon discovered he still had soap in his hair and politely requested that Tory help him wash it out. When that was finished, Tory decided to apply some lotion and had trouble reaching her back.

You get the idea.

Now they were curled up on Jon's bed again, exhausted – very exhausted – but content.

Tory had occasionally shared a bed with her boyfriend and had always found it a bit of a hassle. It was strange, having to share the sheets with someone else and not being able to roll onto your other side without checking to see if you were going to bump him. With Jon, however, it felt completely natural.

They were spooning, her back pressed against his chest and his arm around her waist.

"Hey," murmured Tory sleepily.

"Hey what?" Jon replied, the words a muffled by the pillow and her hair.

"Um…nothing."

"No, what?" asked Jon, propping himself up on one elbow. Tory twisted so that she was lying on her back, looking up into Jon's face.

"Really, nothing. I was just saying 'hi.'" Then she started giggling at the look Jon gave her.

Jon shook his head, looking rueful, and then surprised her by slipping his hand under the small of her back and rolling over so that she lay on top of him. Tory laughed at the sneak attack and Jon smiled up at her.

This is so good, thought Tory. I never knew I needed this until I had it...

Tory rested her head on Jon's chest. He ran his fingers lightly up and down her back, making Tory arch her back. The gentle caress turned into a back scratch, and Tory sighed in delight.

"You really do know the way to a girl's heart," she told him, and felt his chest shake beneath her in laughter. Then she felt him catch his breath as her hand slowly began tracing down his body.

"You do know it's three in the morning, right?" he asked her.

"Mmm-hmm."

"And that we're exhausted, right?"

Tory propped herself up and looked at him. "Are we?" she asked innocently before reaching up to kiss him. As she moved forward her thigh deliberately pressed against his groin and he moaned into her mouth.

"No, I lied," he gasped.

"That's what I thought."

"_Well_," said Jack.

It was just one word, but it seemed to encompass multiple accusations, inquiries, congratulations, and suspicions.

"Morning," replied Jonathan amiably, taking a seat at the table.

Jack drummed his fingers on the tabletop and stared at his brother. Jonathan smiled back.

"You're awake," Jack said accusingly.

"So I am."

"You're _never _awake in the morning."

Jonathan shrugged. "Sorry to disappoint."

Jack looked at him hard.

Jonathan smiled.

Jack rolled his eyes and sighed.

"So what's with the telepathy?" demanded Tim, also sitting at the table. As usual in the mornings, his white-blonde hair looked like a haystack…a haystack that had been recently involvedwith a tornado. "Speak, goddamn you!"

"About what?" asked Jack mildly.

"We're not discussing anything," Jonathan added, sipping at his coffee. "Just morning greetings."

Tim gave an extremely expressive snort. "Listen, kids," he told them, leaning forward. "You _forget_. I _know_ you two. You're doing that thing where _you _know what the other one's thinking but nobody _else _does, and it's pissing me off. And furthermore, Jack's right – what the hell are you doing all perky? The only time you're bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before lunchtime is when you've spent the whole night fu - "

"Morning, boys," Victoria said cheerfully as she entered the kitchen, clad in her usual plain tank and denim shorts. Her hair was wet and gleamed a rich red-brown in the sunshine streaming through the windows. "What's for breakfast? I'm starving."

There was a long pause.

"Well," said Tim with a sly grin, his brown eyes darting from Jonathan to Jack. "I'll just…help Jorge put the sofa back together, shall I?"

Tim could move very fast when he cared to. Within seconds it was just the twins and Victoria.

Victoria busied herself in the kitchen getting her customary bowl of cereal. Jack took the opportunity to fix Jonathan with a glare. Jonathan continued drinking his coffee and managed to catch Victoria's eye. They shared a smile over Jack's head.

"All right, what happened?" Jack finally asked snappishly, clearly unhappy at being forced to be so blunt.

"Do you want to know, Jack?" asked Jonathan softly, raising one eyebrow inquiringly. "Do you _really _want to know?"

" 'Cause we'll tell you, if you like," chimed in Victoria. She came up behind Jack and spoke softly into his ear, one hand on his shoulder. "Everything. Down to the last detail. Starting when I walked in on Jon in the shower and ending when we…"

"Stop!" Jack shouted, his voice even hoarser than usual. His face had turned a rather ghastly shade. "I don't want to know!"

"Good," said Jonathan calmly. "Then mind your own business."

Jack looked over his shoulder at Victoria, then back at Jonathan. He shuddered visibly and shoved his chair backwards so fast Victoria had to hop out of the way. Without another word Jack strode quickly out of the kitchen.

As soon as he was gone, Jonathan and Victoria collapsed against the table, both convulsed with silent laughter.

Jack was not only discomfited, he was also wrong. It took three months, not two,before Jorge finally announced that it was safe for the three to venture out.

Tim, of course, had long ago departed for New York. Tory missed him. She liked his crazy sense of humor and unrepentant smirk. Unfortunately, she probably wouldn't ever see him again. They would be leaving for South America soon, and she doubted Tim would take the risk and expense of visiting them down there.

Leaving for South America. Instead of feeling more and more real, the idea of moving to another continent felt stranger as time passed – like she couldn't believe she was happening.

But her feeling of unreality didn't stop her from looking forward to it. Tory liked new places and new people. It had been one of the main reasons why she'd transferred to a university in a big city – expanding her horizons was her favorite hobby. Plus, it would be the start of a Real Life, not the Hiding-In-An-Old-Guy's-House-Waiting-To-Be-Killed type of life.

She and Jon could settle down, live on their own, maybe even get a little house…Tory indulged herself with daydreams for a moment. Just a little place, nothing fancy, but with a backyard, somewhere she could start a garden. Vegetables in the back, flowers in the front…and maybe on the windowsills, too. Two bedrooms, one for her and Jon, the other for Jack when he dropped by. Jack was traveler, she knew that – he hadn't stayed in one place for longer than six months since he was eighteen. Probably one of the reasons he'd never settled down with some girl. Well, that and his occupation. Of course, Jon's occupation hadn't stopped her…

Tory took another gulp from her hard lemonade. They'd gotten new I.D.'s yesterday and hers said she was twenty-one. The bartender had been pretty suspicious when he'd seen it, but it had held up under his close scrutiny. Whoever Jorge's contact was, they knew their business.

With a sigh Tory settled back into her chair and returned her thoughts to the house. She pictured stone walls with vines trailing over the rough gray surfaces. Vines would be nice. Maybe, even if the house didn't have them, she could grow some…

A hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Aaaaah!" Tory shouted, leaping off the chair and dropping the bottle, which shattered on the hard wood floor. Masculine laughter was clearly audible behind her. With a scowl Tory whipped around. "You son of a bitch!"

Jack held up his hands as if to ward off attack. "Hey, just trying to teach you to stay on guard."

Tory gave him an extremely rude hand gesture and he gave her one back. Tory scowled harder and took her seat again, frowning down at the bottle.

"Look at what you made me do," she accused him.

"Hey, it's your fault you weren't paying attention," Jack told her, but he did raise his hand and signal the bartender as he took a seat opposite her.

"Nice haircut," Tory told him, relenting with a smile.

"Why, thank you," said Jack, mock-preening. Or maybe not mock. The twins, Tory had found, were definitely on the metrosexual side. "So's yours."

"Why, thank you," echoed Tory with a playful flutter of her lashes. It was the same haircut she'd had before, and likewise for Jack. They'd just both needed a trim pretty badly. It was the main reason they'd come to Ricktown, New Mexico, a moderately-sized city a few hours away from Jorge's secluded house. Apparently, Jack thought it very important for everyone to look spiffy during the Great Escape.

"Psychology," he'd explained to Tory on the car ride over.

"Hey, that's my job," Jon had protested, keeping his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel even as he complained.

"Shut up. The point is, people don't look for trouble from people who don't look like trouble."

Tory had needed to mouth that a few times before she untangled it. "So, what you're saying is..."

"We need haircuts."

"And glasses," Jonhad piped in again. The twins had promptly engaged in a fierce argument over Jon's glasses, with Jack protesting their uselessness and Jon retorting that they would help him look like no trouble. That debate had lasted until they'd reached Ricktown.

A waiter came over with another hard lemonade. Tory accepted it and twisted off the cap but didn't drink, instead glancing covertly around the bar. She was embarrassed that Jack had sneaked up on her so easily – embarrassed and uneasy.

"Relax," Jack told her, crossing his hands behind his head and leaning back casually. "We're out of the news now."

"I hate to break it to you, but blue-eyed twins are pretty memorable. Maybe by yourself you're all right, but what about when Jon walks in? We're sitting ducks and you don't seem to care," Tory accused. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

Jack shrugged. "I may not have stressed how safe we were with Jorge." He uncrossed his arms and leaned forward across the table, blue eyes finally serious. "Look, Tor. There's big bad people out there, but if you spend all your time being paranoid all you'll get is one hell of a headache. You've got to relax. There's a reason why we hid out with Jorge."

"You've never explained exactly what he did," said Tory, finally taking a swig of her lemonade.

"He was pretty high up in the General's organization," Jack explained. His face was completely blank. Tory had discovered that happened when he was trying to suppress his own unpleasant memories.

"How high up?" she probed.

"Second-in-command," Jack said shortly. The look on his face and his tone said that was all she getting from him today.

"So the man's got a rep," Tory mused. She shot a look at Jack. "Okay, I understand now why you've been a bit casual about this."

"Trust me," said Jack with a wry smile. "Nobody's going to want to mess with Jorge. And while we're with Jorge, nobody's going to want to mess with us."

"What about these people?" Tory waved the bottle around the busy bar to encompass all its customers. "I thought you were scared of, how'd you put it - 'the hick waitress at the greasy spoon'?"

"This is no greasy spoon," said Jack, looking around. His tone was appreciative. It was a nice bar, almost a club, and packed to the brim with what looked like a lot of tourists. The lighting was sensuously dark, the dark wood bar and tables were smoothly polished, and some thumping dance music was on, to which a number of attractive young ladies were wiggling.

Tory got the sense that Jack, of all of them, had most resented hiding out. She could see him itching to go and mingle. "Besides, you said it yourself: the man has a rep."

"Even among the civilians?"

"There's an aura, Tor. People don't have to know what someone's done to feel what they're capable of." Jack's eyes were still roaming around the bar.

"Oh, for God's sake, go flirt," Tory told him with a chuckle. "I can tell you're just dying to chat up some of these pretty girls."

"He is rather insatiable," commented Jon, who was standing just behind his brother. Jack whipped around, startled, and Tory burst into laughter.

"Okay, I feel better now," she said with a grin.

Jack scowled at her as Jon took the third seat at their table. Tory ignored him and studied her lover. He was wearing his glasses, and they made him look entirely different. With the startling intensity of his blue eyes hidden, he seemed a lot more like a doctor and a lot less criminally insane.

"You're right," she told him. "They do make you look pretty harmless."

Jon shot a See? I Told You So look at Jack.

"But they're useless," Jack insisted, drumming his fingers against the table-top as if to emphasize his point. "They're just blank glass."

Jon shrugged. "Just because I don't need them to see doesn't mean they're useless." His hand found Tory's under the table and squeezed. She squeezed back with a smile.

Jack looked like he was going to throw up.

"What's your problem?" asked Jon.

"Don't give me that. I _know_ you two are holding hands or playing footsie or_ something _under this table."

Jon made an exasperated sound while Tory tried hard not to giggle. "Jack, you're being immature," he told his twin bluntly. "What is it about Tory and I that bothers you so much?"

"It's not you and Tor," Jack retorted quickly, his eyes flicking uncomfortably from one to the other. "As much as I hate to admit it, you're a cute couple. It's just the whole...touchy-feely thing."

"Since when have you been against touchy-feely?" asked Jon. "I seem to remember a lot of times when you were very much for it."

"Okay, fine..."

"Groping your girlfriend in the backseat while I drove..."

"Jon…"

"Snogging the Principal's daughter in the ladies' room..."

"Jon, you're done now..."

"That threesome with the Cooper sisters..."

"Will you shut up!"

Jon flashed his brother a sweet smile while Tory collapsed on the table.

"I can't breathe," she choked. The look on Jack's face was too priceless.

"So why do we bother you?" continued Jon calmly, as if Jack's face didn't resemble a tomato and his girlfriend wasn't asphyxiating.

Still flushed with a combination of rage and embarrassment, Jack glared at his brother. "Because it's like walking in on my brother and sister playing Show Me Yours, okay?"

"Aww, I'm your sister?" Tory managed to choke out between giggles.

"Don't let it go to your head, brat."

"Don't worry."

Jack shoved his chair away with a screech and stood up. "I'm going to go practice a little."

"Practice what?" asked Tory, straightening up.

"Kiss-and-Tell."

"How do you practice that?"

"He tries to charm every girl he meets out of her underwear," Jon explained.

"Ah, yes. Of course."

Jack shot one last glare at his brother and turned to leave. Just as he stepped away Tory said thoughtfully, "I could do that."

Jack turned back around. "Do what?"

"Charm people."

He crossed his arms. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Here we go," murmured Jon, rolling his eyes. They ignored him.

"All right, maybe you could flirt with a few of these guys," Jack told her condescendingly. "You've got potential. But you're still not a full-fledged Kiss-and-Tell. You don't have what it takes to bowl them completely over."

"What's the sign that I've bowled them completely over?"

"When they beg for your phone number. Or, in my case, when I can ask for theirs without getting slapped."

"Sounds good," said Tory, standing and surveying the room before turning with a sly smile to Jack. "Tell you what. Why don't we see who can get the most phone numbers?"

Jack raised a brow incredulously. "You really think you can get more than me?"

"Bring it on, biatch."

"Ah, no," said Jon firmly. "I am not sitting here all night while you two try and out-charm each other." They both turned to him with anguished looks. Jon sighed, steepled his fingers and studied them both through his glasses. "Tell you what. I'll be base. The first person to come back to the table with five phone numbers wins. After that, we go home. Deal?"

Tory didn't even nod in confirmation. She was already gone.

Scanning the room hastily, she spotted a rather morose-looking young man sitting alone at the bar. Angling herself towards him, she stumbled and bumped into his shoulder.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she apologized with a giggle, her hand resting casually on his back. "It's so crowded in here tonight!"

"Yeah," agreed the man, his gaze on her low cut tank and short shorts.

Tory pulled her hand away so that her fingers trailed across his back and climbed up onto the bar stool next to him. "So," she said, turning to face her mark with a smile. "Do you come here often?"

I have legit reasons for believing that Jon doesn't need his glasses. If you watch the movie, you'll notice that whenever Jon is being serious with Falcone, he takes them off. Now, if you're getting tough with a tough guy, you don't want to be blind. So, if he actually needed those glasses, I don't think he'd be taking them off.

In addition to that, when he's approaching Rachel at Arkham, you can just see him putting his glasses on. If he doesn't wear them normally and is only putting them on when a stranger is there, I think it's pretty clear that they're a disguise. Don't you?


	27. Blood and Tears

Wow, um, sorry about that. I could shower you all with excuses, but who am I fooling? Basically, it boils down to procrastination and a pretty bad case of (duh duh duh!) Writer's Block. Then, when I'd finally finished this chapter, it took _another _couple of days for to cooperate and let me upload it.

However, it is (finally!) my honor to present to you the second-to-last installment of Part II.

Blood and Tears

"I hate you," Tory declared, crossing her arms stubbornly.

"Hey, if I were you, I'd hate me too," Jack practically sang. He glanced over his shoulder and smirked at her.

"Eyes on the road," Jon told him sternly, his tone a bit sharp with impatience. "Tory, behave yourself."

She turned her head and quirked an eyebrow at him in a silent, _Oh, yeah? _He looked at her and didn't respond. He might not have seen her expression – it was dark in the car, with only the stars and the moon to light the long highway back to Jorge's house.

She studied his face. Even in the darkness she could tell it was whiter than usual. Softening, she reached out with one hand and squeezed his. He squeezed back and wrapped one arm around her shoulders, tugging gently. With a smile Tory leaned into him, snuggling against his lean, warm body and resting her head against his shoulder. He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, holding her hard against him. She could feel his heart beating faster than normal and his breathing was sharp.

He was tired. His defenses – the concentration, the willpower, the subtle mental tricks he used to keep the unbearable terror and hideous hallucinations at bay – were beginning to fail.

They were still holding hands. She squeezed hard, harder, past the point of comfort. His palm was limp and unresisting in hers as she dug her nails into the back of his hand.

He sighed, a quick and near-silent breath. Tension drained out of his limbs as his heart and breathing slowed.

"What are you two doing back there?" Jack asked suspiciously from the driver's seat.

"Making hot monkey love," Tory told him, still snuggled up to Jon. She was beginning to feel sleepy, the long night catching up to her. "So don't peek."

"Don't even try and rattle me. It's not going to work," Jack said. "Whatever you say, whatever you do, it will never erase the fact - "

"All right, _fine_, I know, I lost, you won, by the enormous margin of ten seconds. End of story."

"Twelve, actually," murmured Jon into her hair. "He beat you by twelve seconds."

"_Whatever._ If that last guy hadn't had a hearing aid and needed me to repeat everything twice…"

"Excuses, excuses," Jack said. There was a pause. "Actually, though, you were great."

Tory, surprised, smiled and closed her eyes.

"You're an ass, Jack," she told him, her words soft and slurred with fatigue. "But you're pretty loveable all the same."

She fell asleep to the sound of Jon's soft laughter.

* * *

Victoria fell asleep in Jonathan's arms as the car hurtled through the night. A comfortable silence reigned in the car until they were only ten minutes away from Jorge's house. 

"Too bad he couldn't have come with us," said Jack suddenly.

Jonathan, dozing, woke with a start – and wasn't sorry he'd done so. Although sleeping with Victoria helped, he was still plagued with nightmares, and he had felt one starting to form.

"Sorry, what?" he asked. His glasses had fallen down his nose, but he couldn't push them up without letting go of Victoria, and he didn't want to do that. She was breathing evenly, the smooth, rhythmical sound calming him.

"I said, too bad Jorge couldn't have come."

"He would have been bored. Besides, the sink needed fixing," Jonathan answered practically. He knew Jack wasn't really talking about going to Ricktown.

"I'm going to miss him," Jack admitted softly after a moment. "She is asleep, right?"

"I think," Jonathan told him, half amused and half exasperated, "that Victoria isn't going to panic if you admit you're human."

"Excuse me? 'Victoria'?"

"It's such a pretty name," said Jonathan wistfully. He moved his hand from her arm to her head and stroked her hair. "But she gets mad whenever I call her that."

"I prefer 'Tor' myself."

"I noticed."

Jack chuckled softly and Jonathan smiled in the dark.

"Besides," continued Jonathan after a moment, reverting to their earlier subject, "You may miss Jorge, but I doubt you'll miss our morning exercises."

"I won't," muttered Jack. "Although they've worked pretty well. But…Jon."

"He's a security blanket," mused Jonathan, putting into words what Jack could not. "Nobody can hurt us while he's around. The great protector, the nurturing father, the all-seeing god of war."

"Okay, can you try to put it in less shrink-like terms?"

"How about you're going to miss having a good man at your back?"

"That'll do."

"Me, too," Jonathan said. "It's nice being able to relax. Day after tomorrow, we're on our own again. Three against the world."

"Yeah, but I'd bet on us every time."

"Glad someone's confident."

"You'd rather I was a pessimist?" Jack asked sharply. His tone was hard, and Jonathan knew without asking that Jack had already gone over all the dangers they'd faced a thousand times in his head.

"No," Jonathan told him gently. "No, I like you just the way you are."

"You sure are sappy tonight."

Jonathan laid his head on the back of the seat. He was so tired. The world was beginning to waver and shake, and he could see twisted forms in the shadows of the car, just waiting for him to drop his guard. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on Victoria's hand. "Forgive me," he said sarcastically. "I'll go back to being a bastard, shall I?"

"What's eating you?"

"I'm tired," Jonathan said shortly. Jack was silent. He knew, as well as Jonathan, what being tired meant.

"I'm sorry," Jack finally apologized – not something you heard every day.

"It's all right. We're all stressed right now."

Jack snorted. "Tor isn't. She's off in Dreamland."

To emphasize this point, Victoria snored delicately.

Jonathan couldn't help it. He laughed out loud. Victoria stirred a bit against him but didn't wake.

Lights twinkled on the horizon as Jorge's house came into view. About time, Jonathan thought.

They drove nearer and the lights got larger and larger, an intense golden against the darkness. Abruptly Jonathan spotted a strange shadow against one of the windows, a small and moving object. In an eye-blink it was gone, but Jonathan had recognized it. It was Craw.

Dread overwhelmed him, a far different kind of fear from the one that permeated his every moment now. This one was older, had haunted him since his school days. It was a self-preserving fear – the knowledge that people could and would hurt you.

But…why? What was so alarming about his bird going for a midnight jaunt?

"Why are all the lights on?" asked Jack edgily, and Jonathan was both relieved and disturbed to hear the same fear in his brother's voice. Jack didn't wait for him to answer. He turned the headlights off and began to slow the car.

"It won't do any good," said Jonathan in a low voice, as if – irrationally – they could be overheard. "They'll have seen them already."

"Maybe not. They could be busy…"

As if on the cue, the lights began to flicker off, one by one.

"Preparing for our arrival?" Jonathan asked flatly, dully.

Jack yanked the car over to the side and it ground to a halt in the gravelly soil by the side of the road.

Victoria stirred, at last, in Jonathan's arms. He tightened his grip on her, silently willing her not to wake up, not to participate in the danger. Another irrational reaction to what was happening.

"Mmm," murmured Victoria, working her hand from his grip and pushing against his shoulder as she sat up. Reluctantly he let go of her, watching intently as she ran her fingers through her hair and yawned.

"Why are we stopped?" she asked.

Jack got out of the car, closing the door quietly instead of his usual slam. Jonathan heard him walk around the car and open the trunk.

"What's going on?" Victoria asked again, this time with a sharp note. "What's wrong?"

"_Craw! Craw! Craw!"_

The noise was visible even through the car windows. Victoria opened the car door with one hand and unbuckled her seatbelt with the other, and she was out of the car before Jonathan could stop her. He followed her.

The desert days were hot, but the nights were cold. Victoria stood on the road, her bare arms hugged to her torso, her eyes on the now-dark house.

"_Craw! Craw! Craw!" _The hoarse screech was mournful and eerie in the night.

"It's Craw," said Jonathan, rather unnecessarily, as he came up alongside Victoria.

"Oh, my God," whispered Victoria. "_Jorge."_

She began to shake, and Jonathan didn't think it was entirely from the cold.

* * *

"All right, kids, we're home, wake up," said Jack as he pulled into the dark driveway. He turned the key and the motor rattled to a halt, making the sounds of their breathing sound suddenly loud. 

Jonathan stayed lying down on the backseat. Victoria stayed where she was as well.

For one second, everything was perfectly still.

Lights were on them suddenly, blinding lights, and an unseen hand yanked open Jack's car door. "Get out, get out!" a rough voice demanded of his brother, and Jonathan heard a click as his car door was opened.

Jonathan brought the gun up, but he didn't get the first shot off. Victoria did.

The man who'd opened Jack's door fell back screaming. Jack dove with him as he did so, using the man's own body as a temporary shield and a distraction.

Jonathan's door was open and he fired, hitting one men, two men – he didn't know how many. At the same time he rolled off the backseat and hit the floor of the car, just in time as bullets tore into the spot he'd occupied only seconds before. Now, prone on the floor and partially beneath the back seat, he was a much harder target.

He ended up next to Victoria, who was still scrambling to get up from where she'd been curled at Jack's feet. It wouldn't have worked if she'd been any larger. Jonathan grabbed her arm and pulled her between the two front seats, where there was more coverage. Victoria cried out in fear but fired back, steadying her hand against the seat as she aimed bullet after bullet at their assailants.

Still, there was only so much you could do inside a car. Jack was taking care of the rest. Jonathan caught only the occasional glimpse of Jack, but it was apparent that his brother was using one of the men as a living shield as he backed toward the house.

It didn't quite work, however, because at that point the strangers realized that they weren't going to get at Jonathan and Victoria easily and went after Jack instead. There were sounds of a struggle and shots, but Jonathan could no longer see.

"Out!" he ordered tersely, and simultaneously they clambered out of their hiding places and crouched by the car.

The driveway was empty, and the door was closing.

"Goddammit all to hell!" whispered Victoria fiercely as they hid in the shadows. "They know we have to go in to get him."

Jonathan's mind seemed to have stopped working. All it could think was, Jack!

Oh God, no, Jack, don't die…

They'd always joked about dying together in a car crash or getting terminal cancer simultaneously, but it wasn't really a joke, because the truth was, they didn't know how to live without each other.

Tears, unexpected and dismaying, suddenly blurred his vision, making the world shake and waver like one of his hallucinations.

Focus! Jonathan told himself. He wrapped his hands tighter around the gun until his knuckles were white. Focus!

Victoria was shaking so hard her teeth were chattering. She turned to look at him and he saw her eyes gleam in the starlight. They were wide and bright, too bright.

Well, no matter what happened to him and Jack, Victoria would escape. She could take care of herself, all right. In fact, he almost looked forward to seeing their assailants attack her. They would certainly be in for a surprise…

That was it.

"Come on," he told her, grabbing her hand and pulling her with him as he crept towards the back of the house.

It was a breathless journey, but not shots were fired at them through the windows as they crawled awkwardly by the wall of the house. They reached the corner, just a few feet away from the back door that led to the kitchen. Jonathan had half-expected for there to be a guard, but no one was in the backyard. But there was certainly one posted just inside the door.

Jonathan let go of Victoria's hand and turned to look at her. She was collapsed against the wall, her head thrown back, breathing so loudly he thought the men inside could hear.

He took time he didn't have to study her in the moonlight, fascinated by the strange shadows cast upon her trembling body. She seemed to sense his gaze and with difficulty raised her head from the adobe wall to look at him. Even in the darkness and dim light he could see that her pupils were dilated.

She was on the edge, but on the edge wasn't good enough.

With a flash of neediness he grabbed her by the arms and pulled her close, kissing her hard. She responded, as always, but with less focus than usual. Her body was here, but her mind wasn't. In her mind she had already moved on to other things.

Jonathan broke the kiss and cradled her sweet face between his palms. She stared at him, her face curiously blank and uncomprehending, her eyes dazed and distant.

He hated what he was about to do. He had no illusions – it would be cruel. But there wasn't another way. And he knew that, were she in her right mind, Victoria would agree with him. She would never forgive herself if they left now and abandoned Jack to his death. Neither would he.

"Jorge is dead, Tory."

Her gaze drifted over his shoulder.

"Do you hear me? He's dead."

"Stop it," she whispered.

He gripped her hard by the shoulders. "Dead, okay? Dead, dead, dead."

"Stop it!" she screamed, and this time he knew they'd heard her, but it didn't matter, because she was going over the edge. She tore herself out of his grip with a strength she hadn't had before. With a sob she pulled her knees into her chest and pressed her palms over her eyes. "Stop it!"

"_Dead_, Tory! Dead! There is no hope! And Jack is going to die, too!"

"No, don't…" she sobbed brokenly, rocking back and forth. "Don't! Stop this, stop it!"

"Tory," Jonathan said, his voice low and nearly inaudible under her weeping, "Jack is going to die…unless you do something."

Victoria stopped rocking. After a moment in which Jonathan could have sworn his heart stopped beating, she lifted her head from her hands.

For one second he saw in her eyes the horror he'd experienced so often – the feeling that you were falling into the deep abyss of insanity, and there was nothing you could do to halt it. Then her face changed. Her nostrils flared in rage and her hands, still wet with her tears, clenched into fists.

Her eyes were both focused and blank at the same time, as if she was intent upon a single mental purpose and wore blinders to everything else. There was a cold determination to the gaze as well, a certain amount of ruthlessness, and a good dose of pure savagery.

Jonathan recognized the look. He saw it regularly in the mirror.

He should have been appalled at the change wrought within the woman he loved. And he was…but the shadow in his soul that was Scarecrow shrieked with joyous – and insane – laughter.

Oh, they belonged together, indeed they did, oh yes indeed they did…

Victoria rose to her feet with even more grace than usual. She seemed to be dancing as she walked, and yet there was a tension to her limbs and a vibrant passion in every minute gesture that wasn't delicate in the least.

He was still smiling when she opened the kitchen door.

* * *

She was crazy, but she wasn't stupid. She was flat on the ground by the time the door swung open. Bullets whistled over her head, but she found the black-clad form in the dark kitchen and shot him down before he could try again. 

In seconds she had rolled back to a full standing position. She seemed to float into the kitchen, barely feeling the ground beneath her feet. Her body responded to her as it never had before. She knew she was capable of immense feats of strength…could bend and twist further than before…could move faster than she'd ever dreamed, twice as fast as anyone else…if there had been more than one story, she would have jumped outside the window to see if she could fly.

Deep inside her somewhere, some part of her was screaming. She could tell that. But it didn't seem very important, somehow…

Her vision was hyper-focused. She could see everything, every detail of the tiled floor and the smooth adobe walls and the two bodies on the floor. She could hear everything, too – the faint whispers of her enemies behind the door as they tried to decide who had fired those shots, the slight creak as her lover pushed open the kitchen door. She could smell an acrid, nasty smell, and instinctively knew that it was fear, and that everyone was stinking with it except for her.

She was flattened against the wall by the entrance to the living room, and she couldn't remember how she'd gotten there. She looked down and saw a length of pipe in her hand and knew that it was from the kitchen, where Jorge had been fixing the sink, but she couldn't remember picking it up.

Jorge was dead on the kitchen floor. Why hadn't she stopped to look, to say good-bye? Why had they taken his head?

Her lover was beside her, his gun cocked by his ear, his breathing sounding very loud. Waiting for her. For her to do what? She couldn't remember.

The men had stopped whispering now. They knew that their comrade was dead, and they were waiting for her to attack. She knew how to wait though, too, they wouldn't get the drop on her so easily.

One of them was stupider than the rest. She heard him approach the open arch of the room's entrance cautiously, gun out no doubt.

Her lover shifted and inhaled and that fast she clamped a hand over his mouth. Her skin tingled at the sensation of his lips and she almost took him right then, almost knocked him to the ground and pulled him inside her and brought him right then and there, twenty, thirty feet away from the headless corpse of their father…

A moan of pain distracted her.

_BROTHER._

The man at last reached the entrance and Tory swung.

The pipe connected slowly, in her mind, yet it caved in his face, smashing his nose hard into his brains and sending blood spattering everywhere. She rode the body as it fell backwards, letting it take the impact and then rolling away and springing to her feet.

The men were grouped in a circle around her brother. One held a gun to his head. The others had their guns pointed at her.

Her lover was shouting at her, but she only had eyes for her brother and his captors. Slowly she raised the pipe and saw the bloodstains on its slim length, the clinging bits of brain and tissue. Her whole world seemed to condense to this thin metal tube and what she was about to do with it.

She closed her eyes and let herself go.

* * *

The next thing she knew, she was on her knees. 

"Tory? Tory, honey, let go of the pipe."

Tory dropped it into Jon's hand, noting that his was pale and clean and hers was covered in blood up to the elbow. He took it with a visible shudder of relief.

"What happened?" she whispered, but it was a lie. She knew perfectly well what had happened.

Jon was kneeling in front of her, and Tory had a flashback to the day he'd escaped from Arkham. He reached up and cradled her face in his palms. "It's all right, Tory," he told her soothingly. "It's all right. I know it's scary, but it's going to be okay."

Tory turned her head away, gently breaking free of his grasp, and looked around. There were bodies everywhere, and blood spattered the pale tile and walls in all directions. Even the peach-colored couch was stained beyond saving. The only person standing was Jack. He had evidently just been untied, for he wasrubbing his wrists as he watched them closely.

Tory gave him a stare to match his, and after a moment Jack shrugged and turned to examine the various bodies.

Oh, God…

Bodies…

Oh God, please, no, not again…

She covered her eyes with her hands but yanked them away immediately when she felt the wetness of the blood on them. She licked her lips and tasted blood. She looked down at her clothes and couldn't even tell what color the shirt had been, it was so stained and spattered and drenched in all the blood she'd spilled…

She was going to scream. Jon must have seen it in her eyes because he grabbed her wrist and pulled her to her feet so hard she stumbled. He dragged her past the bodies and down the clean, uncontaminated corridor until they reached his room, the room that they now shared. He yanked open the door and pushed her inside before him, slamming the door behind them both.

It was completely dark except for the square of moonlight shed by the window. For one second Tory was confused and disoriented, but then Jon pulled her tight against him and she stopped caring about where she was. Her entire body convulsed in a silent scream as she buried her face in his shoulder, tears streaming from her eyes as she gave in to the horror that she had just perpetrated.

She began swearing between sobs, giving vent to every obscenity she knew as she flailed out again and again with her fists, trying to fight the flashbacks of what had just happened, the disturbing, fragmented memories and the realization of what she had done. Then she cried even harder as she realized that, in her terror, she'd been hitting Jon, and he had just stood there and took it. She flung her arms around him as if she was being swept away in a flood and he was the last tree on Earth.

He hugged her back just as hard. She silently willed him to squeeze harder, to crush her ribs and collapse her lungs, to let her just die – or, at the very least, suffer enough to distract her. An idea sparked and she brought her hand to her mouth, but before she could bite Jon pulled it away and placed her palm on the small of his back. At the same time he grabbed her chin and brought her mouth to his, probing harshly with his tongue and biting her lip a little harder than usual.

Tory melted into him, glad of the relief, thankful for the blissful oblivion that his kiss brought. She didn't resist when he walked her backwards and pushed her onto the bed, just pulled him back into their embrace as fast as she could. She knew that she was covered her blood and that her mouth probably tasted like snot – she didn't care – she needed him more than she'd needed anyone in her entire life.

She couldn't tell how long they spent kissing, or for how long they spooned afterward, cradled in the darkness and the silence. At long last, however, she whispered, "What's wrong with me?"

Jon's arm tightened around her waist and for a second she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he said quietly, "Tory, are you really sure you're ready to hear this?"

"I'd rather know what's wrong with me," she replied softly, "than be wondering."

He kissed the top of her head and sighed. "This is my fault," he murmured, almost too quietly to hear. "I provoked you."

"Yes, you did," said Tory, the words coming out harsher than she intended. "But," she added, "I guess it worked, didn't it?"

Jon didn't reply.

"Jon," Tory prompted. She was exhausted, and her words were slurred. "Jon, tell me what's going on, or I'm…" The words stuck in her throat. Normally, she would have added, "Or I'm going to hurt you." It wasn't funny tonight.

"You're a berserker," Jon told her, his words as flat as if he was giving a stranger the diagnosis.

"A what?"

"A berserker."

Tory racked her already tortured brain. "Like, the Vikings? One man taking on an army and all that? Or the Irish – sort of a Cu Cuchulainn thing, transforming into a war beast? I think?" she added, not too sure of her facts right now.

"Something like that," Jon softly agreed. "It's a rare condition, but not at all unheard of, and obviously well-documented in history. Essentially, you produce and control adrenaline in a different way from most people. You know the story of Jack and Lisa?"

"Uh, yeah, of course," said Tory, more than a little confused by the sudden change of topic.

"Well, that's an example of what happens to most people. Most people, when they get in high-pressure situations or very emotional, lose focus. They have the adrenaline, but they don't know what to do with it, so they do stupid things, like, oh, chasing after some woman instead of getting the hell out of Dodge."

The exasperation in Jon's voice was just too funny, and Tory was relieved to find she still had a giggle left in her.

"You work in exactly the opposite way," Jon continued. "When you are emotional and under pressure, you become _more _focused. Instead of forgetting your training in tense situations, like most people, you remember your training better. You also produce far more adrenaline than most people, so you're that much faster and stronger."

"I'll ask you to explain more later, but you can you just sort of sum it up for me for tonight? Preferably in ten words or less?"

She couldn't see him smile, but she knew he was. "Basically, my love," he said, kissing her on the head again, "you can walk anywhere you damn please."

There was a tentative knock on the door. "Come in," Jon called, sitting up. Tory sat up with him.

The door opened, and Tory had to shield her eyes from the bright hall light. She could just see Jack as a dark silhouette in the doorway.

"They're all down except for two," Jack told them, the rasp in his voice a little harsher than usual. "One got away with his _trophy_," the last word was venomous, "the other's wounded. I could use some help with questioning."

"We'll be there in a minute," Jon told him. Jack nodded and shut the door. Once again, the room seemed almost oppressively dark.

Jon got off the bed and stumbled to his dresser. After a moment, Tory swung her legs over the bed and followed him, feeling more than a little numb.

Jon turned and handed her something. Tory took it and examined it in the dim square of moonlight, tracing its curves with her fingertips. The soft silver light gleamed off of metal.

It was a mask. An exquisite mask of silver and bronze, made into the shape of a woman's face. There was something goddess-like about its beautiful lines and peaceful expression. Tory felt soothed just looking at it.

"What's this for?" she asked. Then she turned it over and saw the inside.

She looked up and could just see Jon standing in the shadows, quiet and watchful. "Jon," she asked him, her voice soft, "why do I need a gas mask?"

He didn't answer. He just stepped into the moonlight, and she saw a familiar looking burlap sack clenched in his fist.

After a moment of silence, he turned toward the door and left. Tory lingered for a moment, looking at the mask, uncertain. Slowly she placed it on her face, pulling its two leather straps over her head to secure it.

She'd thought it would be heavy, but it wasn't. It seemed made for her, and as she glanced around the room once more through the eyeholes, it was light as a feather…as was she.

Feeling serene for the first time in a long time, Tory pulled off the mask and went to join the twins.


	28. Beginning

Right, sorry about that. I was working pretty hard this summer (ten hours a day) and didn't have tons of time left over. Now, however, I'm back in college, and seeing as I'm a complete slacker I should have more time to write. Plus, there's a guy on this floor who'll pretty much kick my ass if I don't, so yeah, expect more regular updates, 'cause he's a looooooot taller than I am.

Some slight concern expressed over Tory developing into a "sidekick," to which I respond: hell no. You've got nothing to worry about, because Tory is not, and will never be, a mere sidekick, much less a (gasp!) _Mary-Sue_. She's _waaaay_ too awesome for either of those things! However, it was very sweet of y'all to be so anxious about her.

I'm having a wee bit o' trouble with the ruler line, so whenever I type _Meanwhile, back at the ranch..._ just know that it signifies a change in perspective. Okey-dokey? Okey-dokey.

All right, here it is, the last chapter of Part II.

**Beginning**

Jonathan left Victoria in their room and walked swiftly to the kitchen, his mind so occupied that he almost bumped into the wall. With a quick, impatient breath he realigned himself properly and entered the open archway, only to nearly slip and fall on the blood-covered tile.

"Having a little trouble?" asked Jack with a smirk. Jack was squatting beside their prisoner, who was out cold. Jonathan refrained from rebuttal as he knelt gingerly on the floor. Placing his mask carefully to one side, he opened the small bag that he'd been carrying in his other hand.

"Think that's the best way?" Jack asked quietly, all business now.

Jonathan pulled out a small vial and a syringe. With precise, practiced movements he opened the vial, stuck in the needle, and pulled the plunger up so the liquid shot into the syringe. Putting the bottle back on the floor, he held the syringe upright and tapped it a few times with one finger, to clear it of air bubbles.

"Do you have any better ideas?" he asked…and struck.

_Meanwhile, back at the ranch..._

"Aaaaaggghhh!" Tory heard a man scream. She rushed the last few steps into the living room, trying not to notice the pile of five dead bad guys in one corner and focusing instead on the twins.

Jack was on his feet, holding his arm and shouting. Jon knelt on the floor next to their unconscious prisoner and watched his brother's antics serenely.

"YOU _STABBED _ME!" Jack howled.

"I _injected_ you," Jon corrected mildly.

"WITH _WHAT! ACID?" _

Tory started laughing so hard she almost let her mask fall from her fingers. Jack glared at her murderously.

"_What?" _he snarled. The menace was lost on her – she just laughed harder.

"Oh, sure, _you _think it's funny," Jack spat.

"I just don't get it," Tory giggled. "You're usually not _this _much of a baby."

"I'm never a baby!"

"He doesn't like shots," interjected Jon, sounding thoroughly amused. His blue eyes glinted at Tory mischievously.

Jack kept rubbing his arm and didn't deny it. "At least tell me there's a purpose for this particularly savage bit of sadism," he finally muttered.

"I injected you with the antidote to my hallucinogen," Jon explained patiently as he continued to rummage through his bag. "So unless you really wanted both of us to be crazy, I suggest you thank me."

"Let's just get this over with," Jack sighed, squatting by the prisoner. "Do we need to hold him down?"

"Can't hurt," said Jon absently. Tory could tell he wasn't really paying attention as he continued to fumble in his bag. She knelt beside him, and when he turned to look at her his eyes were unfocused and ecstatic in a way she'd seen only once before.

She looked down at what he was holding in his hands, and then to the mask on the floor between them.

"Is this the part," she said very quietly, lifting up her own mask, "where I put this on?"

Jon nodded quickly, too quickly. He seemed to be struggling with something. "You don't have to stay," he finally said. His voice was strained and unnatural, sounding hoarser than usual.

Tory hesitated, her gaze still fixed on Jon's face. Whatever his mouth was saying, his eyes were saying something else entirely. They were begging her to stay, to share this with him.

This isn't going to be pretty, she thought, glancing at the slack, pale face of their prisoner. But then the image of Jorge's headless, mutilated body flashed through her mind so vividly that for a second she couldn't see the room around her, and her heart hardened.

"Let's just get it done," she said, echoing Jack, and slipped the mask over her face.

_Meanwhile, back at the ranch..._

Jonathan let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His rational mind told him that Victoria should go, that she had already suffered enough, that having her help him torture someone probably wasn't a very positive direction for their relationship to take.

In other words, Jonathan didn't want Victoria there.

But Scarecrow certainly did.

This was his greatest power, his greatest glory, and he wanted, more than anything, to share it with her.

With slightly trembling hands Jonathan pulled the mask over his head, allowing its rough burlap to settle around his face in familiar folds. The hard gas mask attached to the front of the sack seemed to suction itself to his face like it would never come off.

Unhallowed thrills of adrenaline shot through Jonathan's body. He knew how people saw him – a weakling intellectual, a wanna-be bad guy, a pawn to be pushed around by those physically stronger than himself. Many years ago, he'd allowed himself to be influenced by their prejudices, and his own self-hatred had wreaked more havoc upon his mind than mere bullying could ever accomplish.

Then, on that fatal prom night, his world had been suddenly and diametrically reversed. What had been his greatest weakness became his greatest strength, and he'd learned a lesson that had dominated his thinking every since…

_Only the mind can grant you power._

He'd created the mask specifically to remind himself of that fact. Now, every time he put it on, he felt the same rush. It was if he were taking off a mask instead of putting one on, revealing his deepest, truest self in ragged burlap and a stitched scowl.

Through the torn eye-holes Jonathan studied his lover. She'd put on her mask, and she looked beautiful in it. Just like a goddess, or perhaps a queen. He glanced at his brother, who looked slightly pale and thoroughly pissed off. Nothing unusual in that.

The queen that was Victoria leaned over and pulled the arm of their prisoner out to its full length, pressing his limp wrist hard against the floor. Jack did likewise, and as they pinioned him the assassin began to wake and struggle.

That fast, Scarecrow's hand was in his face, white powder flew, and the man began to scream.

He arched his back off the floor and kicked his feet, almost hitting Scarecrow in the face. Scarecrow dodged and lunged forward until he was nearly straddling the man, his knees pinning the man's legs and his blue eyes inches away from the man's green ones.

"Who are you working for?" Scarecrow growled, the gas mask twisting his voice into something nightmarish.

The man was still for a moment, eyes wide with incomprehensible horror; then he started to scream again, crying out as fast as his lungs could draw in air. Scarecrow smiled at the terror he had inspired and grabbed the man by the collar.

"Answer me," he snarled, twisting the shirt over his bare hand so that the man's screams were momentarily choked.

"Ra's!" he sobbed pathetically once Scarecrow allowed him to breathe again. He writhed and twisted under their collective grips. "Ra's Al Ghul!"

The wave of sadistic euphoria that Jonathan was riding on suddenly evaporated. He jerked back as memory swept over him. Suddenly he was the one screaming and shivering in fear, while a dark creature from hell gripped him unmercifully and growled questions in his ear.

He almost lost it, then and there – almost surrendered to the terror that only the Batman could inspire within him. Only the comforting scratch of burlap on his cheek reminded him that he was here in Arizona, not in Gotham, and that this time he was the one in control.

He opened his mouth and seemed to hear a deeper voice echo his words:

"Ra's Al Ghul is dead. Who are you working for?"

"Please!" the assassin screamed. "Please! Oh, please, God, make it stop!"

"I will," Scarecrow hissed in his ear, "if you tell me who you're working for."

"I swear, I swear to God, it's Ra's Al Ghul! He wants you dead, he wants you all dead, but she didn't say why!"

"She?" Scarecrow heard Victoria whisper. Her mask amplified her voice so that it echoed eerily throughout the room, seemingly without a source.

"Who is she?" demanded Scarecrow.

The man managed to pull his arm away from Jack's grasp and began clawing at his face. With a snarl of impatience Scarecrow grabbed his collar once more and pulled him upright.

"Who is she?" he howled, shaking the assassin.

But it was too late – with a final gasp and a shudder, the man died, his features stretched wide with everlasting horror.

_Meanwhile, back at the ranch..._

Jack heaved the last shovel of earth into place and patted it smooth before collapsing beside the two new graves. He hadn't wanted to bury the assassin at all, but Tory had insisted.

The sun was just rising, shedding pale light on the barren landscape and making the freshly-erected crosses shed long shadows. Jon stood opposite Jack, leaning on his shovel and looking down at Jorge's grave with a pensive expression. Tory bent over the cross, her forearms resting on the horizontal bar, and stared at the distant horizon that lay at Jorge's feet.

"So what now?" she asked, her voice sounding rough and dry. There was a long moment of silence.

"We still have the tickets," offered Jon at last, but his voice was subdued, as if he knew no one would second the motion.

"What good would they do us?" demanded Jack irritably. "Now we have someone else on our tails."

"We evaded the General's cronies. We can hide from the League of Shadows, too."

"This is what you call evading the General's cronies?" yelled Jack, gesturing angrily at the graves. Immediately, he regretted the words. This wasn't Jon's fault.

"I'm sorry," he apologized softly. "I didn't mean…"

"It's all right," said Jon with a tiny smile that said he understood entirely. "We're all a bit wound up right now."

I'll say, thought Jack, thinking of the euphoric, damn near orgasmic glint of Jon's eyes as he'd terrorized their prisoner to death. Still, who was he to point fingers? He knew that he was capable of equal savagery.

The silence stretched long again, without even a twitter of birds to break it. Jack wondered absently where the crow was. Maybe he'd finally skedaddled for good.

"He doesn't have his head," murmured Tory, still gazing at the sunrise.

This was so non sequitur that Jack had to replay her voice in his mind a few times to comprehend what she'd said.

"Yeah. What do you plan to do about it?" he asked wearily, feeling hollow and empty as he relived stumbling over his mentor's headless body. He'd seen a lot of people die, a lot of people, but it was one thing to look at a stranger's corpse and quite another to look at an old friend's.

He still couldn't believe the old man was gone. Jorge, Old Jorge, whom no one, not even the General, had been able to take down. And just like that – gone.

"No one should be buried without their head," continued Tory, her features quiet and composed. Jack was reminded of the mask Jon and Jorge had assembled for her, using an old gas mask and one of Jorge's many pieces of art. Right now, it almost looked as if the stern bronze features had molded Tory's face into its own serene expression. "It's got to be bad karma, or something."

"I repeat, what do you plan to do about it?" Jack asked sharply. What had gotten into Tory? Normally she was more sensible than this.

She turned her head to look at him, resting her cheek on the top of the splintered wooden cross. "Find it, of course."

Jon made a disbelieving noise in his throat. Tory didn't even turn to look at him. She kept quietly staring at Jack.

Jack shifted on the hard ground uncomfortably.

"It's impossible, Tory," Jon protested. Tory switched cheeks to face him. "I've worked for the League of Shadows for thirteen years. Their mission is to rid the world of immorality, and in pursuit of that goal they are capable of anything. If they want to kill us, they'll succeed."

"Wonderful," muttered Jack. "Great way to start my day."

"They only chance we have is to bury ourselves in the boondocks and never come out again," said Jon dismally. "And even that might not work."

"Wasn't that our plan for dealing with the General?" inquired Tory, one eyebrow raised ironically.

Jack shifted again, fighting down an overwhelming feeling of guilt.

He was supposed to be in charge. He was supposed to take care of his sick brother and his brother's naive girlfriend. Instead, he'd nearly gotten them killed.

He glanced up at Jon and saw him looking equally uncomfortable. No matter what they said about twin telepathy, he couldn't read his brother's mind, but he was pretty sure Jon was going through a similar guilt trip.

Tory alone looked unaffected. She lifted herself off the cross with a sigh and leaned against it, wrapping one arm around the vertical post and staring down at Jorge's grave.

"Jorge once told me," she finally said, "that there are only two choices in life: fight or flight. I told him I would rather fight than flee, and so he started teaching me how."

"Three months ago," she continued, "I wasn't capable of defending myself. Maybe I'm still not. But I've spent enough time hiding."

"You say we're going to die. Well, I'd rather die with my gun in someone's gut than cowering in a corner. It's a lot more honorable and a lot more enjoyable, and I'm sick of doing it the other way."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm going after Jorge's head, and the people who took it, and the people who hired them, right up to Ra's Al Ghul himself if necessary. I'll probably be killed before I step foot outside Arizona, but I told Jorge – I promised Jorge – that I'd fight, and that's what I'm going to do."

This time, the silence was not only long and oppressive, it was downright smothering.

"Did you plan to include us in these grandiose schemes?" Jon finally asked, a mixture of sarcasm and tenderness in his voice.

Tory's smile was tinged with a touch of sadness. "Of course. But only," she added, "if you want to."

"Yes, I do," said Jon simply. "Jack?" he added.

"What?" Jack answered, turning things over in his head rapidly, weighing options and calculating outcomes.

"Are you with us?"

"First of all," Jack said, the same blend of sarcasm and tenderness flavoring his own tone, "you've spent way, way too long in melodramatic old Gotham. 'Are you with us?' Please. You sound like something out of a B-rated action film."

"You didn't answer the question," Tory pointed out with a broadening grin.

Jack jumped to his feet and dusted off his pants. "If you think I'm letting you two children out to play by yourselves, you've got another think coming."

"Children?" asked Jon, the word dripping with sarcasm.

"Well, I am older than you are." He continued right over Jon's sputtered insults. "Besides, it's not as hopeless as it looks. We do have some advantages." He paused for a moment to glance at Tory. Boy, did they have some advantages.

"Like what?" asked Tory, sounding eager for a little hope.

"You, for one thing," Jack told her bluntly. "Your little trick is bound to come in handy, and no one knows about it but us. Jon here's got enough medicine to last us until kingdom comes, and again, no one knows we've got it. I've got connections to nine-tenths of the best criminals of the U.S., so we've got some resources. And last but not least…"

"_Craw!_"

With a furious flapping sound a large black hurricane flew just over them and perched precariously on Jon's head, clicking its yellow beak and looking them all over with its wise, black, beady little eyes.

"We've got a crow," finished Jack with a sigh, first shaking his head, then throwing it back in laughter. "Now we're really unbeatable!"


	29. Plot Twists

Yeah. Sorry about that. I have only one excuse: nineteen credits. But that's not much of an excuse, so feel free to chuck rotten tomatoes at me.

Anyway, this is kind of a quickie to get me back in the habit and introduce some crucial characters. I finally worked out EXACTLY what's going to happen, so hopefully the plot holes will be minimized.

Oh, I just fixed one hole, though. You remember how really frickin' easy it was for Tory to get into Max Security and for Jon to escape? Well, guess what! Arkham in the comic books is _notorious_ for being an easily cracked crib. Just about everyone has escaped that dump _at least _once. So, I didn't screw up. I was being true to the comics! And if you believe that, I have all kinds of things to sell to you...

So, anywho, welcome to Part III. Cue the confetti.

* * *

**Plot Twists**

"Roger, this is Tory. Tory, this is Roger. You've met before. You were just unconscious."

"That's helpful, Jack," said Tory, rolling her eyes.

"Nice to see you again, Tory," said Roger, shaking her hand and giving her a winning smile. He was of medium height, boyishly good-looking, and somewhat swarthy, with dark hair and eyes – probably of Italian descent. Something about his quick smile and the gleam in his eye labeled him as a ladies man. "Hope you've recovered from your, ah, adventures."

"Um…" she gave Jack a questioning look.

"Roger is the one who gave us the car to get to Jorge's place," he supplied. "You passed out in the helicopter, remember?"

"And slept through the whole drive," added Jon.

"Oh! Okay. Well, in that case…very much so," she told Roger with a smile. She looked around curiously. They were in a large warehouse that had been modified into a garage. Cars were everywhere, both new and old, sexy and clunker. Men were everywhere as well, all wearing grease-stained clothes and shouting loudly over the whir of the various machines.

"Nice place you have here," she said tentatively.

"Nothing says home like a chop shop," said Jon sardonically, leaning casually against a concrete support pillar. The three of them all looked horribly out of place – Jack with his business casual look, Jon dressed like the former college professor he was, and Tory in her ever-present jeans and tank top – but nobody seemed to be paying them any particular attention. Clearly, the men here were used to visitors.

Roger grinned. "Damn straight. So, what can I do for you fine gentlemen today?"

"We need a new car," Jack told him. "Our old one's got some holes in it."

"Yeah, I noticed. I apologize in advance, by the way."

"Oh? For what?" asked Jack, sounding suspicious.

"No Porsches," said Roger solemnly, in the kind of tone usually used to announce someone's death.

"WHAT?"

"Sorry. That new biker gang in Santa Fe had a good run and completely cleaned me out of the pretty stuff."

"Fine," Jack said sourly. "Any Ferraris?"

"Nope."

"Shit!"

"Suspend your elitist tastes, Jack," Jon told his brother. "It would just make us stick out, anyway."

"I never get to have any fun," Jack muttered.

"Do you have any BMW convertibles?" piped up Tory. "I love those."

Roger grinned and rubbed his hands together. "A lady with taste! As a matter of fact, I do."

Jack turned to give Tory a disgusted look. "A BMW?" he demanded.

"Could be worse," Jon told him. "Could be a Toyota."

"Hey!" Tory protested. "I like those, too."

"Roger, take me away," said Jack with a slight eyeroll. "I may become violent if I stay here."

"Right. Want to inspect the merchandise?"

"Of course."

"Don't trust me, huh?"

"Not if I can help it."

"You've cut me to the quick."

"Don't worry, I'll bind your wounds with green bandages."

"Now _that's_ the Jackson we all love."

The two wandered off, leaving Jon and Tory by the pillar at the corner of the garage.

"How do you two know him, anyway?" Tory inquired of Jon, who was still leaning against the pillar, looking half-asleep.

"Oh, he's an old friend of Tim's. Roger started out as a car thief, made some money, then moved out here and became a fence."

"Kind of like Jack starting as an assassin and becoming a manager."

"Very similar, yes. Jack included Roger in his cast…"

"Cast?"

"That's what managers call their regular employees, the seven or so they use in every job. There's usually a couple of assassins, couple of thieves, and always a tech expert or two. Together, they're called a cast. They all work together and whoever's the manager is the boss."

"Why a cast, though?"

"Think theater."

"Ohhh, I get it – like the cast of a show."

"Mmm-hmm."

Tory could tell that Jon was almost asleep. He looked so cute dozing off in the little patch of sunshine that seeped through the window that she couldn't help but snuggle up to him.

"Mmm," he murmured as she wrapped an arm around his waist and settled against the pillar next to him. "Sorry, I'm still just…"

"I know," she said soothingly. Fearing another panic attack after the events of last night, she and Jack had encouraged Jon to sleep during the long car ride to Roger's shop. So far, the extra nap seemed to have helped some, but Tory could tell that Jon wasn't even close to operating at his normal levels. Silently she prayed that the storm wouldn't break until they had reached the comparative safety of New York. Considering that they were driving there, however, that didn't seem likely.

Jon seemed to know what was going through her mind. He took her hand from where it rested against his hip and squeezed it. "I'll be all right," he whispered.

"Liar," she whispered back, kissing him lightly on the cheek. His skin was cool and clammy. Tory squeezed Jon's hand back and mentally cursed at Jack to hurry up.

"So if regular employees are a cast, then are the people a manager uses sometimes called extras?" she asked, trying to distract Jon.

He chuckled. "No, but that would be pretty funny. They're just called employees."

"Damn. I got all excited."

He craned his head down to smile at her. "There is something called a "shadow player," though."

"Oh? What's that?"

"It refers to someone who's in the cast but whom nobody outside knows."

"Um…what?"

"Most of the people in a hand are well-known. That's how people decide which manager to hire – they look at his past successes and they find out what kind of cast he has."

" 'He.' How sexist."

"Unfortunately not. There's never been a female manager."

Tory's mouth dropped open. "What? Never?"

"Never. In fact, there are hardly any women at all in our profession."

"Well, that sucks." Tory mused on that fact. "Kind of explains a lot, too."

"Yes," said Jon, again picking up on her train of thought. "I'm afraid Jack's sexism is in the nature of an occupational hazard."

"But _you're _not sexist."

"No, I despise both genders equally."

Tory bent over double with silent laughter, forcing Jon to catch her around the waist before she fell down.

"Did I miss something?" asked Roger just above her, startling her into looking up.

"No, that's just their usual antics," Jack said with a long-suffering sigh. "Let's hustle, you two. We have a car."

"A BMW convertible?" Tory asked eagerly.

"Yes. Unfortunately."

"What color?"

"Black."

"Sweet!"

"Michael's pulling it around front," said Roger. They heard a squeal of brakes.

"Pulling or crashing?" Tory asked nervously.

"Pulling," the twins affirmed together. Jon released her and got off of the pillar, rubbing at his eyes and knocking his glasses askew. "Alright, let's go."

"Hey, Jon, are you okay?" asked Roger, sounding alarmed.

"I'm fine," he assured them, but his voice was weak. His eyes seemed caught by something over Roger's head and the color drained from his already pallid face.

"Are you…hallucinating?" asked Roger in a whisper, sounding nervous, as if he weren't sure what Jon's reaction to the question might be.

Jon seemed to shake himself and smiled wearily. "I'm always hallucinating, Roger," he told him, an ironic twist to his lips. "It's just a matter of whether or not I can ignore it."

* * *

The sack landed on the mahogany table with a squishy _thump_, just in front of the seated woman. She opened it with quick motions of her long, manicured fingers, seemingly impervious to the nauseating smells emanating from the rough burlap. Peering inside, she frowned.

"I was rather expecting Crane's head," she said quietly, glancing up at the man who'd thrown it on the table. "Jorge's, while gratifying, was hardly the target of your expedition."

"He didn't have enough of a head left to bring," the man said sweetly, lips curling upward and blue eyes gleaming. "And I don't take trophies unless they present a challenge."

The woman was still frowning but appeared to accept this explanation. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded.

"A job well done is to be rewarded," rumbled a deep voice behind her. "Give this man what he is due." A small Asian man hurried forward with a briefcase and passed it to the assassin.

"Many thanks, friends," the man told them, grinning. There was more than a hint of raw bestiality to the way he bared his teeth, which went well with his ragged, dirty blonde locks and thick beard.

"I am sorry," she told him in a sweet, consoling voice that retained a slight accent, "about the loss of your comrades."

Phillip, former employee of the General and leader of the Wolves, the team sent to assassinate Crane, shrugged. "Good men," he said nonchalantly, although she thought she could detect the faintest catch in his voice. "But they knew the risks. And this'll numb the pain some," he added, hoisting the briefcase with another feral grin.

"So glad to help," she said, and with a flick of her elegant hand dismissed the man. He bowed twice, first to her, then to the man standing behind her.

"Ra's Al Ghul," he told the man, a hint of reverence in his scratchy voice, "it's been a pleasure."

"Likewise," the man rumbled back, and the Asian man escorted the assassin away, leaving the man and the woman alone in the opulent hotel room.

Sora turned sideways in her chair. "Indeed," she murmured, looking up through long eyelashes at her fourth husband, "it is a pleasure working with you."

Aman grinned, flashing bright teeth against his black, almost purple skin. "I must say," he told her, running a hand over her shiny, raven's-wing hair, "I like all this unearned respect."

"Feel free to get used to it," she told him, rising gracefully and walking to the closet. "I doubt you'll ever be exposed. Everyone who knew old Henri as Ra's Al Ghul is dead, and who would doubt the word of a beloved, long-lost wife?"

"Everyone except Bruce Wayne," he reminded her.

"_Shortly_, everyone who knew will be dead," she told him firmly, sliding open the closet door and examining her various beautiful coats. "And even if the 'Batman' does escape, they will never believe him over me." Selecting a black wool trench, she draped it over her arm and shut the door.

"Isn't it ironic?" she asked, almost to herself, turning around to face Aman and leaning against the closet. "Twenty-five years ago the man deserted me because I was a criminal. I was 'lost' to him, he said. Everyone in his organization thought I was dead. They were amazed to discover that I was alive." She belted on the trench and gestured for Aman to put on his own tailored black coat. "But now he's the one who's dead," she continued, striding to the door, closely followed by Aman. Just as she was turning the handle, she twirled around in a swirl of cloth and gently laid one finger against Aman's chest. "And everyone thinks," she murmured up at him, a smile curving her lips, "that he's alive."

They exited the room to her bright laughter.

* * *

The graveyard was deserted at night, but even then he didn't dare to go in. He killed the engine and rested his forehead against the cold window, staring at the rows of tombstones behind the iron fence.

He knew exactly where the General's was: seven rows up, three columns left. It was just visible from here. A brief walk from the gate. He could climb over the fence and visit it right now.

Except that he still couldn't be sure that the feds weren't watching, waiting to arrest anyone who came. After all, weeping over the grave of an assassin wasn't exactly a great character recommendation.

More importantly, however, he dared not risk being seen by any of his old colleagues. They would begin to ask themselves why he felt so strongly about the General's death. They would start to remember little things that hadn't seemed important at the time, like the number of times the General had taken him out to dinner, or the way the General never assigned him to the really dangerous jobs. The speculations would begin, the rumors would spread, and pretty soon they'd forget their old loyalty to their leader and tarnish his General's name forever.

His lips pressed briefly, lightly to the windowpane, in the direction of the General's grave. Then he started the car and drove away.


	30. A Hard Day's Work

This is a shorter chappie, but I've got the next one pretty well plotted out, so it should be up soon. I thought I would elaborate a little more on those scars…and thus the plot progresses! Ooooh.

* * *

**A Hard Day's Work****  
**

The world was warping and dissolving away. Walls slid, floors buckled, the ceiling caved in on his face – pressing on him – suffocating him! He cried out and raised his hands to shield his face, but his hands were bound behind his head. Panic erupted in his chest, strangling his breath. He was tied. He was tied down.

He was back in Arkham! He was back in the straitjacket!

Jonathan couldn't help himself. He screamed, writhing against his bonds, and twisted his neck around to see what was holding him down.

A masked face grinned down at him, black and hideous. Huge, black-gloved hands gripped his hair, forcing his head even further back. Jonathan gasped in pain, but the pain was clearing his head. The masked face rippled and began to fade, the room slowly stabilized, and the hands released his hair.

Jonathan turned his head forward and saw what had been "suffocating" him: a small form was lightly straddling his chest. Her fingers, formerly tightly clenched in his hair, were now caressing his cheek and lips. Squinting, he made out Victoria's familiar face.

He also saw that she was naked.

Victoria leaned forward and kissed him, her hands cradling and supporting his head. He returned the kiss with enthusiasm and was about to embrace her in turn when he realized that part of his hallucination was all too real: he was tied down.

"Um…" he murmured against her lips.

"Sorry," she whispered, and fumbled with the restraints for a minute. To Jonathan's intense relief he felt the pressure on his wrists disappear, and with a clanking noise Victoria sat back up, dangling a pair of shiny handcuffs between her fingers.

"Ahh," said Jonathan weakly. "Kinky." But he knew the real reason he'd been shackled to the bed like a dog, or a criminal, or a lunatic. Jack and Victoria would never have done such a thing unless he'd been a danger…both to himself and to them.

Jonathan felt his old self-loathing rise, and he clenched his fingers into his palms, trying to fight the emotional pain with its physical counterpart.

As if reading his mind, Victoria stroked his hands, then moved her fingers higher and traced the tough scar tissue on his wrists. Her touch was both gentle and insistent, as if, by caressing the memoirs of his painful past, she could heal it.

Jon blinked and looked up at her – _really _looked at her – saw the concern in her dark eyes and the compassion in her delicate face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered without thinking, not even knowing exactly what he was apologizing for.

Victoria didn't reply, just leaned forward to kiss him again. Wrapping his arms around her naked waist, he pulled her hard against him and rolled over.

* * *

Jack swirled the whiskey in his shot glass, staring thoughtfully at the amber liquid. With a sudden, decisive gesture he downed it all and held the glass out for another. 

"Take it easy, Jack," said Tim, even as he tipped the Crown Royal bottle and dribbled whiskey into Jack's glass. "Got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

Jack tossed back the whiskey again, savoring the way it burned down his throat and the warm pit it made in his stomach. When he spoke, his voice was even hoarser than usual. "Did a lot of work today."

"You all sure got here fast," said Tim admiringly. "Three days from Arizona to New York, and one of you sick." As soon as he added that last part he winced.

Jack noticed the wince. "He wasn't that bad until he got here." It came out a bit more accusatory than he'd intended. It also came out a bit more slurred than he'd intended. He'd better stop drinking.

Tim, good man that he was, didn't take offense. "Well, between you and Tory, you'll soon set him straight." Tim sipped at his Crown-and-Sprite for a moment before adding cautiously, "Handcuffing him to the bed, though. That's a bit harsh, wouldn't you say?"

Jack rejected his earlier resolution to stop and held out the glass for yet another whiskey. Tim gave him half a shot. Jack pretended not to notice his friend's stinginess and downed it as quick as he could.

"Sorry I asked," muttered Tim.

Jack rolled the empty glass between his palms. "You know as well as I do what he's capable of," he muttered, voice raw.

"He was twelve, Jack," Tim told him softly. "There's a big difference between twelve and thirty."

"Is there?" asked Jack bitterly. He set down the glass with a bang and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "He's started again," he said dully.

"Cutting?" asked Tim, surprised.

"Not exactly," Jack admitted. "But he's…you know…using pain. Biting himself. All that crap."

"Can you blame him, Jack? I mean, all the shit he's going through…"

Jack jerked his hands away and glared at Tim. "He promised me, Tim! He fucking promised me!"

"You're acting like he's doing this to hurt _you_, Jack!" Tim shot back. "Like it's deliberate! Did it ever occur to you how much _he's _hurting inside, to do these things?"

Jack shoved back his chair and leaned forward across the table, his face close to Tim's. "You," he whispered savagely, "have no idea what you're talking about." Turning on his heel he left Tim's kitchen and vanished down the hallway into his room.

* * *

"Jon! Jon, I'm home!" Jack shouted, kicking off his shoes and flinging down his backpack by the door. He began to wander through the cavernous rooms of their apartment. "No rehearsal today! The drama teacher's sick, and we all got out early!" 

He paused in the dining room, ears straining. "Jon?"

Faintly, ever so faintly, he heard splashing water.

He meandered towards their shared bathroom, hands in his pockets, whistling the theme to _Guys and Dolls_.

"Jon?" he called out, knocking on the bathroom door. "Jon, you in there?"

There was no answer, but Jack still distinctly heard the drip-drip of water.

Just a leaking faucet, then. He opened the door just to be sure, already half turned away, ready to search another area of the apartment.

He saw one pale, skinny arm tossed over the bathtub's edge. From between half-curled fingers a thin trickle of red dribbled onto the tile.

"JON!"

Jack flung himself across the bathroom and wrapped his arms around his dying brother, lifting him bodily out of the half-filled bath and collapsing onto the floor. Cradling Jon, he clenched his brother's upper arms, his wrists, the long lines of bright red leading from his elbows to the heels of his hands.

"HELP! SOMEBODY, HELP!" he screamed, knowing it was useless, that Rosie, their nanny, was away on her regular shopping trip, that he could do nothing except sit there and cry while his brother, his twin…his identical twin…the other half of his egg…died, slack-mouthed and bloody, in his useless arms.

Then there was the click of heels, walking steadily, walking faster, breaking into a run…and Jack knew that this was how it was supposed to be, this was how it always was: that Rosie had gotten home early, just like Jack, and that between them they would save Jon's life.

The bathroom door opened, and it was Lisa.

"Leese," said Jack, and suddenly he was no longer twelve but thirty and hoarse-voiced, but his brother was still just a boy, still naked and bleeding and dying.

"Leese," he begged, holding out one hand. "Leese. Help."

"Why should I?" she asked accusatorily, the pen clenched in her fist and raised like a vampire hunter's stake. "Why should I do a thing you ask, Jack?"

"Leese! Please! You've got to call the hotel, don't you understand! It's my life, Leese, it's his life, it's our life!"

"Fuck you, Jack," she said, and stalked forward, the pen held threateningly.

"Leese," he whispered. "Leese, please. Do it for me."

"I never loved you, Jack," she told him, and stabbed him through the heart.

Jack woke up with a start, shivering and sweating, his sheets twisted around his legs.

Of all the recurring nightmares in the world, that one had to be the worst. The addition of Lisa hadn't improved it.

Wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, Jack padded barefoot across the hall and quietly cracked open the door of his brother's room.

A patch of moonlight fell across the bed. Jack could see his brother, unchained and peacefully asleep. He opened the door a bit more and there was sudden movement on the bed.

Tory sat up, holding the white sheet across her naked breasts, and stared at Jack. He made a quick come-here gesture and shut the door hastily.

Jack waited in Tim's modest living room, holding his aching head while surveying his friend's house with mild pride. He remembered his friend's first apartment; Tim was definitely moving up in the world, from that tiny, filthy share in Queens to a three bedroom apartment. It didn't sound impressive, but it was. Three bedrooms in New York meant a lot more than anywhere else in the U.S.

The room was patterned by deep shadows and the soft glow of streetlamps. Jack saw Tory moving through the room, her slim form seeming to keep almost naturally to the shadows. She was dressed in a thin, white, sleeveless night gown that glowed whenever she strayed into the light.

When she was a few feet away she said, "Well?"

If Jack had said that, it would have come out peremptorily. If Jon had said that, it would have come out cynical, sarcastic, or disdainful. Tory made the word polite, yet alert.

Jack looked her over with two flicks of his blue eyes. It had been a long trip and Jon's breakdown had been devastating for them both. Nevertheless, she looked fairly fit and even relatively alert.

"How's Jon?" he asked.

"Fine," she said with a smile. "Sleeping."

"What a shocker," Jack murmured. "How are you?"

The look Tory cast him was deeply suspicious. "Okay, what do you want?"

Despite his aching head and the bad dream, Jack's lips curled in a smirk. "Remember how you said you were just as good at Kiss-and-Tell as I was?"

"Yes, I do," she said with a long sigh. "And I have the feeling I'm going to regret it."

* * *

"I have an appointment," he heard faintly through the closed office door. His secretary murmured in response and soon he heard the familiar _clack-clack _of her heels as they made the short trip from her desk to the door. It opened, revealing her middle-aged, sour-faced form. 

"There's a young lady here," she said doubtfully. "Says she has an appoi…"

"Quite right, Stella, thank you, send her in," he responded mechanically, and in a few seconds she walked through the door. He knew who it was, of course. Although she'd used a pseudonym, she'd given him enough hints about her identity for him to piece it together.

Victoria Godwin appeared to have aged at least five years since her debut on the news. Her chin-length chestnut hair was styled into a smooth, gleaming bob; her jeans and tank tops and sneakers had been replaced by a neat skirt suit, rose-colored with a white shirt. She looked charming, attractive, and thoroughly harmless: therefore, he was instantly on his guard.

"Mr. Duke?" she asked, extending a small hand over his desk. He shook it and was surprised by the strength of the grip…although, of course, no ordinary hand could have so mercilessly strangled the General. "Thank you for meeting with me."

"My pleasure, Miss…Albert," he said, allowing the little pause to demonstrate how ineffective her pseudonym was. Secretly he rather enjoyed the clever allusion to Queen Victoria's husband.

Godwin did not appear to be shaken by his obvious knowledge. She only smiled and said, "Now that the pleasantries are done, let's get down to business." She unslung her purse from her shoulder and placed it on the desk, her small fingers tapping the leather suggestively. "I believe, Mr. Duke, that you are considered the best defense lawyer New York has to offer."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say 'the best,' but I can certainly assure you, Miss Albert, that defending you is quite within my capabilities."

"I'm afraid you misunderstand, Mr. Duke," she said in a low, charming voice. "I don't wish to employ your services in the, ah, traditional manner. I want you," and here she took out a thick stack of banknotes and gently pushed them across the desk, "to inquire among your clients about a certain hit."

"I see," he said, eyeing the banknotes. "And the hit was on…?"

"Jonathan Crane, Jackson Rippner, and Jorge Emidio," she said quietly, and through her calm composure he suddenly caught a flash of wild grief.

He blinked rapidly, startled. "I'm sorry, Miss Albert," he said regretfully, staring at her, "but I was unaware of any such action." He paused. "I am sorry," he said gently, and pushed the money back to her.

She smiled, but it had no more charm to it now. It was like a line drawing of a smile, empty and meaningless and not a little ghastly. "Keep it," she murmured, and left swiftly. He stared after her a moment, pondering her sorrow and feeling very sorry for her.

The young lady in the rose-colored skirt suit walked swiftly down the block. Stopping at the corner, she pulled out a small cell phone and dialed.

"Anything?" asked Jack, his rough voice sounding even more distorted through the phone.

"Nada," said Tory.

"Okay. Come back for lunch and then we'll send you to Mr. Gregorovich."

Tory groaned.

"Do you want to find out who 'she' is or not?"

"Yes, I…" Tory started, but she was speaking to the dial tone. Jack had hung up.

Tory sighed and slid the cell phone back into her purse.

"I just wish," she muttered to herself, limping her way down the street in search of a taxi, "that I could find out who she is while wearing flats."

* * *

As Jack snapped his cell phone shut, he looked up to find Jon glaring at him. 

"What?" he asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose it's perfectly all right to send an innocent- "

"_Innocent_?"

"All right, a somewhat innocent girl out to try and find the people who are trying to kill us all. It just seems a tad, oh, I don't know, _heartless_."

Jack looked at Jon's pissed-off face for a moment, then shook his head. "For the man who's madly in love with her," he said, "you really underestimate little Tor."

"What if someone follows her? What if someone decides to finish the job? You're sending her out to get a bullet!"

"Which she'd probably survive, given her abilities. And besides, I don't think they're after Tor."

"You were the one who demanded that we kidnap her for her own safety!"

"That was about the General's people. We've already established that we're being hunted by the League of Shadows. If anyone's in danger, it's probably you. You're the one who worked for them."

Jon shifted restlessly in his chair. "But while she's out and about, the General's people might find her."

"Except for the fact that none of will recognize her with the makeover I gave her, and the people I'm sending her to have a reputation for discretion. Now, will you please stop _worrying _and _eat _something?"

"CRAW!" said a screechy voice in emphatic agreement. A fluttering, feathery black form landed on the table and began to peck at the sandwiches.

"I still can't believe," said Jack under his breath, "that you brought the bird."

"Oh, hush," said Jon, stroking Craw's black feathers. "You were the one who always wanted a pet."


	31. Jack's Karma

A nice, long chapter to make up for my tardiness. Also, the story begins to be actually decent again. Yay! Oh, and I realize that Jon's and Tory's relationship seems a little tame right now, perhaps even a little boring. Just hang in there...

* * *

**Jack's Karma**

A week later, Craw was snapping up stale breadcrumbs with much less enthusiasm. The flat things the humans ate every day for lunch were no longer as exciting as they had been. He wished they'd forage for something else.

Perhaps, Craw considered in his inhumanly straightforward manner, there was some sort of famine in this area of the country. After all, every day the female went out looking, and every day she returned empty-beaked. Maybe that was why the human-who-looked-like-his-human, the leader of his murder, was getting so cranky. He was stomping around the house now, making strange snarling noises under his breath, and both the light-feathered human and his human were avoiding him.

Speaking of his human…Craw jumped, fluttered, and swooped onto his human's shoulder. His human had been sick when they'd first arrived but was mostly healed now, for which Craw took complete credit. Who had fed him? Who had groomed him? Who had driven off the other humans when he was feeling sick or tired? Craw made a proud little croaking noise and gently nipped his human's ear. His human in return made a loud sound and swatted at him. It was an ill-aimed blow that Craw dodged easily before fluffing his feathers and settling down onto his human's shoulder. Together they stared out the window, watching the humans walking hurriedly far below them.

Suddenly Craw spotted a familiar figure.

"_CRAW CRAW CRAW!" _he called, making his human jump and forcing Craw to bail from his shoulder and settle back onto the table.

His human shouted at him, turned back to the window, and shouted again in a very different tone. This time the noise sent the light-feathered human and the leader human running to the door.

"_Craw," _said Craw in a very disgruntled squawk. He knew the human had at last seen what he'd already announced: the female had returned.

Now his human was holding out his hand and making soothing noises. Craw shuffled grumpily for a moment, then accepted the apology and stepped onto the proffered fist, climbing up his human's arm until he was once again properly settled on his shoulder. They went together to the door, Craw fluttering his wings with excitement. Perhaps the female's foraging had finally been successful.

* * *

"Enough, Jack!" Tory moaned. She was stretched out on the couch, high heels abandoned at the door, her nice suit wrinkled beneath her prone, exhausted body. Jon was perched on the arm of the couch and was gently running his fingers through her hair, a habit he seemed to have picked up from Craw. Tim was at the other end, massaging her weary feet with a very sympathetic look on his face. Jack alone stood opposite the couch, his arms crossed, his pretty features stony. 

"Face it, Jack," she continued. "Nobody knows!"

"Somebody has to…"

"No!"

"There has to be…"

"No!"

"Just one more…"

"NO! No, no, NO!" Tory sank deeper in the couch and glared back at Jack to get her point across. "We've been searching for a week solid, and while you've all been sitting here on your asses…"

"We have _not _been sitting on our asses!" Jack spat.

"Well, you sure as hell haven't been walking up and down ALL OF NEW YORK wearing FUCKING HIGH HEELS!"

Her shouting became incomprehensible as it mingled with Jack's outraged, frustrated venting and Jon's frantic but doomed attempt to defend both of them at the same time.

Tim began speaking in a quiet voice, so low they couldn't hear him. Curious as to what he had to say, Tory shut up, trying to listen. Jon soon followed suit, and finally Jack.

"Peanut butter, jelly, bananas, orange juice, a couple gallons of milk, laundry detergent…" Tim was practically whispering. He stopped and beamed at them, his crooked smile lighting up his silly scarecrow face.

"I'm sorry," said Jack after a moment's pause, in the voice of one teetering on the edge of sanity. "Were you reciting your grocery list?"

"Trick I learned from a mob boss," said Tim with a shrug. "But now that you're all listening…" He smiled again, this time sheepishly. "Sorry, Jack, but Tory's right."

Jack swore under his breath. Jon placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and Jack calmed himself with a visible effort.

"Any other nuggets of wisdom?" Jack asked between gritted teeth.

"Yeah. Swallow your pride and call her."

Jack's expression morphed from contained fury to controlled despair. Tory leaned forward, completely forgetting about her sore feet in the excitement of a chance to tease Jack.

" 'Her?'" she asked brightly, innocently. Jack glared at her before his glance slid hesitatingly sideways to Jon. Jon was frowning, clearly puzzled.

Suddenly his eyes widened in comprehension.

Slowly he began to grin.

"Shut up," Jack muttered.

"I didn't say anything," said Jon, in a very similar tone of voice to the one Tory had used.

Jack gave them all a Look of Death before stomping out of the spacious living room. Tory leaned back against the pillow and let her eyelids flutter closed, inexpressibly relieved that at last they would be trying something new. Jon's fingers brushed her cheek gently.

"You're going to want to be awake for this," he murmured, his normally cool voice rippling slightly with laughter.

"Yeah, I almost feel sorry for him," Tim chimed in, giving her feet an extra squeeze.

She heard Jack reenter the room and with a massive effort sat back up. Jon slid from the arm of the couch to sit beside her, and she leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder. His arm slid around her and rested lightly, casually, on her thigh. Tory gave in to temptation and turned her face into his neck, breathing in the faint smell of his aftershave with a sigh.

She loved him. For the life of her she couldn't explain why, but she did. It wasn't that she had to be with him all the time – in fact, she sometimes felt it necessary to leave the room before she broke his neck – or that she thought she would die without him, or anything as melodramatic as that. It wasn't even a case of "Can't eat, can't sleep, reach for the stars, over the fence, world-series kind of stuff." It was just that somehow, when she hadn't been paying attention, he had wound his way deep inside her mind. His sharp wit, his poor self-esteem, his exasperating desire to control, his intelligence, his strange streak of playfulness…virtues and vices both had nestled deep into her heart, so that a day without Jon felt as awkward and strange as a day without shoes, or a day without meals, or a day without laughter.

That, and the sex was fantastic.

She tried to convey this with a soft kiss on his white-shirted collarbone and a squeeze of his hand. He seemed to get the message, since the hand on her thigh gently increased its pressure and his lips touched her brow in turn. Tory was suddenly aching to get off her prim, itchy suit and into something more comfortable…like their bed.

Jack was back, though, and she waited for him to say something about her and Jon's cuddling. For once he was too distracted, punching numbers into his cell phone and waiting with a grim face as the dial tone rang.

"Hi, Viv, it's me, Ja…"

The click and the buzz were loud enough for all of them to hear. Jack pulled the phone from his ear, frowned, and hit redial.

"It's Jack, and I need your…Shit!" Was it her imagination, Tory wondered, or was the buzz even louder this time?

Jack swore softly and punched redial again, then swore much louder with it didn't pick up.

"Answer, damn you!"

"Lemme see," said Tim, holding out his hand. Jack dropped the cell phone into his hand and shoved his hands into his pockets. Strangely enough, despite the frustration obvious in his tense shoulders, Tory thought he seemed rather less than enraged. In fact, if she didn't know better, she would have thought he looked a trifle…guilty? Embarassed?

"Oh, great," said Tim.

"What?" Jack asked worriedly.

"She just blocked your number."

"Oh, God…"

Jon fished in his pocket and handed Jack his cell phone. Jack took a deep breath and dialed again, a determined expression on his face. "Don't hang up!" He shouted into the phone when it picked up. "I have a job for you!"

"Yeah," said a female voice perfectly clearly, "The kind that starts with blow!" Click. Buzz.

Jack held the phone away from his ear, looking the picture of exasperation. Tory could feel Jon's ribs shaking with suppressed laughter.

"Uh, what's going on?" she murmured into his ear.

"Ex-girlfriend," he whispered back, the words almost incomprehensible as he desperately tried to contain his mirth.

"Ohhhh," murmured Tory in sudden comprehension. She tapped her fingers against her panty-hosed knee, thinking. Suddenly she grinned broadly. With a groan she stood up, balancing gingerly on her bruised feet.

"How important is it that we talk to this woman?" she asked a frowning, petulant Jack.

"Very," he admitted reluctantly.

"Gimme your phone," she told Tim. Tim leaned way over to hand her his phone. Grasping it, she casually positioned herself closer to Jack.

"What's the number?" she asked, facing him straight-on.

He reeled it off and she punched it in, waiting patiently for the woman to pick up. This time it was Jack who moved even closer, so that the front of their bodies almost touched. She read in that a subtle threat: don't try anything funny.

"Hello?" said a very, very cautious voice in Tory's ear.

"Hello, my name is Tory, and there's something I want you to hear." And with that Tory's small, hard knee shot up.

"Did you hear that?" she asked pleasantly a moment later.

"Was it an anguished scream, followed by a crumpling sound and some moaning?" the voice asked.

"Uh-huh. I didn't really think that Jack would react so dramatically to getting kicked in the balls."

"That was Jack?"

"You're dead!" Jack half-gasped, half-shouted from where he lay at her feet, clutching his crotch. "You wait and see…what I'm going to do to you!"

"Oh, yeah, that's Jack." The speaker's voice faint New York accent was suddenly enhanced considerably by amusement. "And you…you're Tory, eh?"

"At your service."

"Some interesting stories floating around about you, Miss Tory. They call you the Queen, did you know that?"

"Uh…no."

"Well, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"The Queen of the circus ring, so to speak."

"Um, I just temporarily emasculated Jack, so…"

"Aha! So you are royalty. Well, Your Highness, how about we get together for some lunch and discuss this job of yours?"

"You don't want to hear what it is first? Or how much we're going to pay?"

"Honey, this is just a date, not the fucking wedding. Tomorrow at Café Mania? Noon sharp?"

"Uh, okay…"

Click. Buzz.

Tory snapped the phone shut just in time to dodge a pitiful lunge by Jack, who immediately collapsed on the floor again. In doing so she tripped backward and landed heavily in Jon's lap. He wrapped his arms tight around her, trapping her.

"Uh, you're not holding me down so Jack can get me, are you?" she asked nervously, wiggling against his wiry grip.

Jon buried his face in her back. She could feel his whole body shaking. Looking to the side, she saw Tim's long, pale hand fastened over his own mouth.

"You…had better not…laugh," gasped Jack as he stumbled painfully to his feet, his voice raspy with agony.

Instantly Jon and Tim burst into hysterical laughter. Jon's grip loosened and Tory jumped away, barely making it past a furious Jack to rush down the hallway and slam shut the door to her and Jon's room. Locking it with trembling fingers, she collapsed on the bed and laughed until her sides ached almost as much as her feet.

* * *

"So. Are you going to tell me who this chick is?" Tory shouted. 

It was 11:30 exactly the following day, and she and Tim were standing on the sidewalk waiting for an opportunity to cross the street. The reason Tory was shouting was because two taxis had just collided, and between the raging drivers, the blasting horns, and the growing sound of sirens, it was impossible to hear a thing.

Tim tried to shout back an answer, grimaced, and shook his head so that his white-blonde hair was sent flying. When he stopped, it had rearranged itself into an entirely different pattern.

Tory was grinning, half about Tim's hair, half out of sheer delight that she was back in her jeans and sneakers, when Tim suddenly grabbed her arm and guided her through the maze of cars that were all honking their horns as loudly as possible. Before Tory could realize the danger they were in Tim was pulling her down the staircase of the subway.

"This is better," he said, his voice echoing very slightly in the relatively deserted tunnel. Tory was wondering where the famous New York crowds were when they turned a corner and mowed right into a long line of people pushing through the ticket counters.

Tim handed Tory her ticket and together they shoved their way in, slipping through the turnstiles and nearly losing each other in the press of people. Tim was ahead of Tory and turned around once to say something – "Lunch rush" was what it looked like, judging by the movements of his lips.

It wasn't until they were jam-packed into a subway car that they could finally speak. Sort of.

"Her name's Vivian, obviously, and she and Jack were together for a while a while ago."

"Nice of you to be specific."

"It's kind of hard to be specific with Jack. He's about as committed as a…a…dang. What's a really bad father example from the animal kingdom?"

"I get the idea. I take it Vivian eventually caught on?"

"Oh, Viv's not much in the commitment area herself. She just didn't take it too well that Jack had a few other girlfriends, too."

"In New York?" she asked, marveling at his audacity.

"Nah, around the country. He travels a lot, you know? Hell, even Jon and I can't keep track of his girlfriends. I mostly know about Vivian because she's here and because I've worked with her occasionally."

Tory opened her mouth to ask what she did, then remembered that she was standing literally cheek-to-shoulder blade with two sweaty businessmen, both of them clearly on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

"Well, that explains a lot," she said instead.

"Yeah, well, I get the feeling she'll like you," said Tim cheerfully. As he said the words Tory thought she saw his hand move, but when she looked again it was in his pocket. "Come on, kid, this is our stop."

They shoved their way out into a, thankfully, much less crowded station. Only when they had reached the street did Tim quietly begin to tell Tory what she needed to know.

"Vivian specializes in tech stuff, computers and all. She can hack into just about anything, and probably already did in second grade."

"Okay, cool, but why do we need her?"

Tim frowned. Tory almost laughed at the comically distressed face he made. Tim was adorable. "Didn't Jack tell you?"

"We're not exactly on speaking terms at the moment, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Tim smirked. "So, we need Vivian to hack into the major banks and see if there have been any big money transfers recently into the accounts of known criminals."

"Banks?" Tory asked, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Yeah, banks. You know, large buildings, usually pretty impressive, where people keep their money…"

"Smartass, I know what banks are. But why would they keep the money in the bank? Why not under the mattress?"

"Sweetie, the kind of money that pays for a guy to take out someone like Jorge is a bit much for under the mattress."

Thinking of money, Tory suddenly had a slight panic attack. "Hey, Tim, I assume we're paying for this lunch, right? Do we have money?"

"We have all _kinds _of money, hon."

Tory gave him a doubtful look. "I sure distributed a lot of it out recently," she said. "I'm not sure we have much left."

"Trust me, we do. Or, more accurately, I do."

Tory cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "Um, Tim, you're a pickpocket." That fact suddenly collided with the fact that he had a really, really nice apartment. "Where do you get your money?" she demanded, then blushed as she suddenly realized how strange that would sound.

Thankfully, Tim didn't seem at all offended. "Wondered when you'd put it together. I thought it was pretty obvious that I had a trust fund."

Tory dodged a woman talking into her cell phone and then gaped at Tim. "You? Trust fund? Wait a minute…"

"The wheels are turning," Tim whispered dramatically.

"Jack and Jon gave it to you, didn't they?"

"Technically, Jack gave it to me. Jon got cut out of the will, remember? When Mr. Jackson Crane disappeared from Park Avenue to become Jackson Rippner, he basically handed the whole kit and caboodle to me. Felt guilty about taking it, I guess, or maybe he was just still that mad at his parents, didn't want to touch it. It sure is plenty, though. Hell, I hardly even work anymore. You wouldn't _believe _the stocks I own…hey, here we are."

They were standing in front of Café Mania, a brightly colored, bohemian looking place. Despite the slightly chilly weather a few people were sitting outside, smoking cigarettes and comparing body art.

"You're up," said Tim cheerfully, slapping her on the shoulder and turning away.

"Hey!" Tory shouted, whirling around in sudden panic. "Where are you going? I thought you were coming with me?"

"I did. Now I'm leaving. You remember the way back, right? Hey, catch!"

A small black object hurtled through the air at Tory's head. She caught it at the last minute and examined it. It was a black wallet with the monogram E.B. She looked up to see Tim grinning at her.

"Thought you didn't work anymore?" she asked sarcastically.

"I said _hardly_, babe. _Hardly _work anymore. Have fun with Vivian!" And then he was gone.

With not a little trepidation Tory tucked the wallet into her back pocket and slipped through the narrow door of the café.

The café was smoky with incense and cluttered with tiny tables, each painted a bright and clashing color. Squeezing her way past them Tory edged over to the counter, looking around and wondering how in the world she was supposed to recognize Vivian.

"There you are!" said a familiar voice with a slight Queens accent, just as light fingertips touched the sleeve of her shirt. "I was wondering if you were going to stand me up." Tory turned and almost gasped aloud with recognition. She didn't know why – she'd never seen this woman before – but there was something incredibly familiar about her.

She was tall and slim, almost ethereal, with long legs that were emphasized by her skinny jeans and tall high heels. Her face was a delicate oval, milky white with a faint smattering of freckles. Her mid-back length hair was very pale, not as white as Tim's but close. Bright green eyes winked at her shock.

"They told you I was a tech geek, didn't they? Didn't mention the model part."

"You model?" Tory asked, although she really wasn't surprised.

"When I was a kid. I wouldn't touch the work now but it's still fun to say. Shall we sit?"

She picked a little, round, two-person table right smack dab in the middle of the restaurant. Tory almost suggested going closer to the wall to gain a little privacy, but quickly saw Vivian's reasoning. They more surrounded they were with chatter, the less likely it was that someone would overhear them.

They had ordered and were sipping at steaming cups of tea before Vivian spoke. "So. What's the work?"

"We need you…"

"Please don't say we. It reminds me that that bastard Jack is lurking in your little shadow. Let's just pretend you're alone in this, hmm?"

Tory chuckled. "Okay, _I _need you to check some bank records. See if any major money has gone into the accounts of known criminals."

"You're looking for the half and half thing, right? Some money before, some money afterward. He was killed, what, two weeks ago?"

"Two and a half," said Tory quietly. The cheerful camaraderie of the café was suddenly lost on her.

To her surprise, Vivian reached out and gently patted her hand. Tory blushed, the kind gesture making tears tremble at the corner of her eyes.

"It's all right, Tory," said Vivian, looking serious for the first time. "You know why?"

Tory swallowed. "Why?" she managed to get out in a decent approximation of her normal voice.

"Because we're going to get the bastards. Whoops, here's the food! Did you get the Ginger Tofu Stir-fry or did I?"

* * *

It turned out to be a wonderful lunch. Tory found herself completely relaxed in Vivian's company. She wondered how much it was simply because Vivian was another woman. She had, after all, been surrounded by men for a very, very long time. 

It wasn't until she was walking back to the Subway that she suddenly found the answer to her faint, nagging feeling of déjà vu.

"Lisa," she said out loud, stopping in her tracks. "She reminds me of Lisa."

Their personalities weren't much alike, and neither were their looks. But there was something…their femininity, their professional confidence, their aura of radiant womanhood combined with a hint of fragility.

Tory stood there for a long time thinking it through, letting herself be pushed by the black-clad crowd, her hands shoved deep into her pockets and her gaze abstractly fixed on a glowing neon sign for Chinese take-out.

Suddenly, she grinned. "Nah," she told herself, beginning to walk again, "there's no way…"


End file.
